rma 
1 


(^LIBRARY    | 

l<       UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO       ! 


THE    LITERARY    LIFE 
AND     OTHER    ESSAYS 


Printed  by  Maunsel  &  Roberts,  Ltd.,  Dublin 


THE  LITERARY  LIFE 
AND    OTHER    ESSAYS 

P.    A.    CANON    SHEEHAN,    D.D. 


MAUNSEL  AND  ROBERTS,  LIMITED 
DUBLIN  AND  LONDON  1921 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE    LITERARY    LIFE  I 

OPTIMISM    IN    LITERATURE  35 

OPTIMISM    IN    DAILY    LIFE  46 

AN    UNPUBLISHED    PREFACE  58 

CATHOLIC    LITERARY    CRITICISM  68 

THE    AMERICAN    REPORT    ON    IRISH  86 

EDUCATION 

THE    IRISH    PRIESTHOOD    AND    POLITICS  1 09 

THE    DAWN    OF    THE    CENTURY  121 

NON-DOGMATIC    RELIGION  15! 

THE    MOONLIGHT    OF    MEMORY  1 68 

LENTEN    TIME    IN    DONERAILE  I  87 


PREFACE 

Canon  Sheehan  needs  no  editor's  introduction, 
even  to  the  present  generation,  though  it  has  lived 
to  see  an  Ireland  vitally  different  from  that  so 
affectionately  described  in  his  reminiscent  essay, 
"  The  Moonlight  of  Memory  " — as  different,  perhaps, 
as  that  rather  unheroic  epoch  was  from  the  time  of 
Sarsfield.  That  essay  and  another,  "  Lenten  Time 
in  Doneraile,"  in  which  he  tells  of  an  aspect  of  our 
national  life  which  is  splendidly  unchanging,  were 
written  only  a  year  or  two  before  his  death.  The 
rest  are  of  much  earlier  date.  The  papers  on 
literature  were  delivered  as  lectures  some  thirty  years 
ago.  The  political  and  religious  essays  are  for  the 
most  part  the  work  of  the  same  period  of  Canon 
Sheehan's  life,  and  any  topical  allusions  in  them 
explain  themselves.  1896  is  the  date  of  the  admirable 
but  discarded  preface  to  "  The  Triumph  of  Failure," 
which  was  itself  first  published  in  1899.  "  The 
Dawn  of  the  Century  "  was  delivered  as  a  lecture 
in  1904. 

In  editing  this  work  I  have  taken  no  liberties  with 
the  manuscript  beyond  some  trifling  alterations  in 
punctuation.  The  editor  of  a  posthumous  work  is 
always  faced  with  this  difficulty,  that  he  must  pass 
some  things,  be  they  many  or  few,  which  he  feels 
sure  the  author  would  not  have  allowed  to  remain  as 
they  are  :  here  and  there  a  little  roughness  or  infelicity 
of  expression  which  would  pass  unnoticed,  or,  indeed, 
be  perhaps  not  out  of  place  ki  a  lecture,  must  conse- 
quently find  its  way  in  a  permanent  form  into  the 
published  work  of  a  writer  who  has  made  for  himself 
his  own  high  place  in  Anglo-Irish  literature.  This  can- 
not be  helped  ;  but  it  is  only  fair  to  Canon  Sheehan's 
reputation  as  a  finished  writer  of  English  to  remind  the 
reader  of  the  form  in  which  these  essays  were  left  by 
their  author.  And,  indeed,  it  is  perhaps  remarkable 
that  the  number  of  these  evidences  of  lack  of  care  and 
polish  is  so  few. 

E   McL. 


THE  LITERARY  LIFE1 

i 

In  accepting  the  invitation  of  this  Society  to  read 
a  paper  for  its  members,  I  selected  this  subject — the 
Literary  Life — as  one  that  might  be  made  not  only 
interesting,  but  useful.  Because  it  is  one  about  which 
ceaseless  interrogations  are  put  from  young  and  old 
aspirants,  the  form  of  question  generally  touching 
the  feasibility  of  making  a  living  by  literature,  or,  at 
least,  of  attracting,  ever  so  little,  the  regards  of  our 
fellow  men.  It  is  found  that  some  of  these  queries 
are  pathetic  ;  some,  unreasonable  ;  some,  pitiful ; 
none,  for  reasons  I  shall  afterwards  detail,  altogether 
condemnable.  The  replies,  given  readily  by  those 
who  have  failed  and  those  who  have  succeeded,  are 
pitched  in  the  same  sad  key  of  uniformity.  With 
singular  unanimity  they  seem  to  warn  off  all  aspirants 
from  a  dangerous  and  thorny  path.  Some  of  these 
sad  verdicts  are  familiar  to  you,  like  the  mournful 
lines  of  Dr.  Johnson  : 

"  You  know  what  ills  the  author's  life  assail — 
Toil,  envy,  want,  the  patron,  and  the  jail." 

1  A  locture  delivered  before  the  Cork  Literary  and  Scientific 
Society. 

B 


2  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

But  his  successors  in  modern  times,  when  it  is  gene- 
rally presumed  an  author's  life  is  happier,  seem  to 
repeat  the  same  sad  threnody. 

George  Augustus  Sala  was  a  successful  journalist. 
His  last  verdict  is  : 

"  Were  I  a  young  man,  I  should  certainly  not 
adopt  journalism  as  a  profession.  With  very  few 
exceptions  the  career  leads  eventually  to  premature 
old  age  and  indigence." 

Grant  Allen,  who  was  simply  omniscient,  if  we  are 
to  judge  by  the  multiplicity  of  subjects  that  engaged 
his  pen,  says  that  "  crossing-sweeping  is  better  than 
literature." 

Gibbon,  de  Quincey,  Scott,  Trollope,  Thackeray, 
may  be  cited  as  witnesses  to  the  same  effect ;  and 
surely  the  world  has  always  regarded  these  as  the 
successful  few. 

To  a  correspondent  who  wrote  him  on  the  subject 
Carlyle  replied,  "  that  he  had  never  heard  a  madder 
proposal.  It  was  only  one  degree  less  foolish  than  if 
he  were  to  throw  himself  from  the  top  of  the  Monu- 
ment in  the  hope  of  flying." 

And  to  Dr.  Crozier,  who  had  come  from  Canada 
to  London  to  practise  not  his  profession  as  doctor 
but  as  a  lesser  light  of  literature,  the  same  sage  replied  : 

"  Na,  na,  that  winna  do.  Ye'd  better  stick  to  your 
profession,  young  man.  It's  time  enough  to  think 
of  literature  when  you've  cleared  your  own  mind, 
and  have  something  to  say." 

And,  in  still  more  recent  times,  a  writer,  whose 
sad  experience  lends  such  pathetic  and  mournful 
interest  to  his  words,  writes  : 


AND  OTHER   ESSAYS  3 

"  Innumerable  are  the  men  and  women  now  writing 
for  bread,  who  have  not  the  least  chance  of  finding  in 
such  work  a  permanent  livelihood.  They  took  to 
writing,  because  they  knew  not  what  else  to  do  ;  or 
because  the  literary  calling  tempted  them  by  its  inde- 
pendence, and  its  dazzling  prizes.  They  will  hang 
on  to  the  squalid  profession,  their  earnings  eked  out 
by  begging  and  borrowing,  until  it  is  too  late  for 
them  to  do  anything  else — and  then  ?  With  a  life- 
time of  dread  experience  behind  me,  I  say  that  he 
who  encourages  any  young  man  or  woman  to  look 
for  his  living  to  literature,  commits  no  less  than  a 
crime." 

These  are  sad  words,  wrung  from  lips  which  had 
tasted  disappointment  and  despair.  Are  they  borne 
out  by  facts  and  experience  ?  Yes  !  alas  !  they  are 
only  too  true.  There  is  no  profession,  whose  borders 
are  strewn  with  so  many  wrecks  as  this  of  literature  ; 
as  there  is  no  profession  for  whose  labours  honours 
and  rewards  come  so  tardily — very  often  never  come 
at  all,  or  only  come  when  it  is  too  late.  I  know  you 
might  quote  against  me  such  isolated  successes  as 
that  of  Lord  Macaulay,  who  got  £10,000  for  his 
History  of  England ;  Mr.  John  Morley,  who  got  a 
similar  sum  for  his  Life  of  Gladstone  ;  George  Eliot, 
who  received  the  same  sum  for  Adam  Bede  ;  Charles 
Dickens,  dying  worth  £60,000 ;  Victor  Hugo,  a 
millionaire  ;  Marie  Corelli !  But  what  of  Milton — 
who  got  five  pounds  for  Paradise  Lost  ;  What  of 
Chatterton  ?  What  of  Goldsmith  ?  What  of  Jane 
Austen  ?  What  of  Shelley — expatriated  ?  What  of 
Keats — murdered  ?  What  of  Wordsworth — ridiculed 


4  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

and  despised  for  fifty  years,  and  then  crowned  with 
laurels,  and  honoured  with  academic  degrees,  when 
his  countrymen  should  have  done  penance  in  sack- 
cloth and  ashes,  and  atoned  for  their  stupid  malevo- 
lence by  respectful  and  contrite  silence  ?  And 
Coleridge — dependent  in  his  old  age  on  charity  ;  and 
Jean  Paul  Richter — labouring  on  his  immortal  works 
for  ten  years,  whilst  an  ignorant  and  heedless  public 
refused  him  bread  for  his  wife  and  children.  And 
Tasso,  Cowper,  Comte — in  their  madhouses  ;  and 
that  vast  army  of  French  Parnassiens  and  Decadents, 
from  Balzac  down  to  Paul  Verlaine  and  Stephen 
Mallarme,  starving  and  shivering  in  the  attics  of  the 
Quartier  Latin,  and  casting  immortal  works  at  the 
feet  of  grinding  and  avaricious  publishers  and  a 
public  which  thought  that  the  artists,  who  had  given 
them  so  freely  out  of  the  opulence  of  their  genius, 
were  not  worth  the  few  wretched  francs  that  would 
help  to  keep  body  and  soul  together.  To-day,  after 
the  lapse  of  nearly  a  century,  certain  generous  and 
cultivated  Americans,  of  the  same  race  and  type  that 
helped  to  place  that  beautiful  monument  to  our 
Berkely  down  there  in  the  Cathedral  at  Cloyne,  are 
labouring  to  erect  into  a  museum  the  house  where 
Keats  died  in  Rome.  It  is  very  generous  and  beau- 
tiful ;  but  again  a  symbol  of  the  tardy  recognition  the 
world  gives  to  its  immortals  ! 

And  what  shall  we  say  of  the  heart-sickness,  the 
disappointment,  the  despair,  that  seem  to  have  ever 
dogged  the  feet  of  the  great  thinkers  of  the  world  ? 
History  is  black  with  the  dread  record.  Even  in  our 
own  day  I  know  nothing  more  pathetic  than  the 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  5 

futile  attempts  of  the  authors  of  great  works  to  obtain 
a  little  recognition  ;  of  their  futile  appeals  to  publish- 
ers and  public,  to  give  them  just  one  chance.  Think 
of  Robert  Browning's  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  abso- 
lutely extinguished  for  twenty  years  by  one  word — 
Balderdash — written  as  a  careful  and  comprehensive 
review  by  some  truculent  idiot  in  Tait's  Magazine  ! 
And  think  that  the  same  magazine  had  absolutely 
rejected  an  elaborate  review  by  John  Stuart  Mill  on 
the  same  poems  !  Think  of  Lorna  Doone  hawked 
around  London  for  years,  until  by  the  chance  accident 
of  the  marriage  of  the  Marquis  of  Lome  with  a  Royal 
Princess,  it  caught  the  ear  of  the  public.  Think  of 
Francis  Thompson — a  crossing-sweeper  in  London  ! 
Think  of  the  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  lying  perdu  for  years, 
until  some  intelligent  man  picked  up  a  frayed  copy 
for  twopence  in  a  London  bookstall.  Think  of  our 
own  Mangan  !  Oh,  yes  !  We  who  have  inherited  the 
treasures  of  Mangan 's  genius  ;  we  think  what  an 
honour  we  would  have  esteemed  it,  had  we  lived  in 
his  time,  if  we  were  privileged  to  give  him  a  night's 
lodging,  or  a  decent  cloak.  Too  late  !  Such  is  the 
inscription  posterity,  inheriting  the  immortal  works  of 
genius,  has  to  place  with  sorrow  upon  the  tomb. 

Such,  in  brief,  is  the  history  of  this  sad  but  glorious 
fraternity.  And  we  need  hardly  wonder  that  those 
who  have  had  experience  of  the  vicissitudes  and 
changes,  and  been  embittered  by  the  uncertainties 
and  sadness  of  the  literary  life,  should  warn  off  all 
young  postulants  who  might  be  modest  or  humble 
enough  to  plead  for  advice. 

But  it  may  be  asked  how  does  it  happen,  that  with 


6  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

all  these  terrible  facts  and  experiences  before  their 
eyes,  so  many  are  yet  anxious  to  be  enrolled  in  this 
brotherhood  of  pain  and  sorrow  ?  What  is  the 
strange  fascination  which  literature  exercises  over 
every  one  who  has  come  under  the  spell  of  great 
authors  ?  It  is  quite  certain  that  there  are  few  men 
or  women  of  education  and  culture  who  do  not 
aspire  to  the  glory  of  seeing  their  thoughts,  senti- 
ments, and  aspirations  in  print.  The  number  of 
students  who  go  to  the  Bar,  or  to  medicine,  or  to 
business,  or  to  engineering,  is  limited.  The  number 
of  young  ladies  who  desire  to  enter  the  learned  pro- 
fessions, or  to  earn  an  independent  livelihood  as 
teachers,  governesses,  or  Civil  Servants,  is  limited. 
The  number  of  literary  aspirants  is  legion. 

I  think  the  motives  which  underlie  or  create  this 
fascination  for  letters,  may  be  summed  up  thus  : — 

"  Admiration  for  great  authors  and  the  desire  to 
imitate  them  ;  a  passionate  love  for  books,  and  the 
ambition  to  create  something  similar  ;  the  craving 
for  what  is  believed  to  be  a  quiet,  uneventful,  unim- 
passioned  life  ;  the  fancy  that  a  life  of  literature  is 
absolutely  free  from  care  ;  the  rapture  of  composition  ; 
the  desire  of  fame  ;  the  passion,  so  universal,  for 
making  money  as  speedily  and  as  easily  as  possible." 

Some  of  these  methods  are  noble  and  honourable  ; 
some  unwise  and  unreasonable  ;  some  base  and  dis- 
honourable under  certain  aspects.  We  shall  dispose 
of  these  latter  first. 

I  do  not  for  a  moment  believe,  or  aver,  that  it  is 
either  unworthy  or  dishonouring  to  write  for  money 
or  for  fame.  There  is  no  reason  whatever  why  an 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  7 

author  should  not  seek  to  exchange  his  services  as 
poet,  novelist,  essayist,  historian  for  remuneration 
similar  and  equal  to  that  which  accrues  to  the  doctor, 
the  barrister,  or  the  commercial  speculator.  If  he 
wishes  to  coin  his  brains,  and  mint  them  into  gold, 
there  is  neither  simony  nor  sacrilege  in  doing  so. 
The  pen  of  the  writer  is  not  more  sacred  than  the 
scalpel  of  the  doctor  or  the  artist's  pencil.  Yet  there 
is  a  certain  class  of  people  who  seem  to  think  that  it 
is  quite  a  degradation  to  write  for  money  ;  and  even 
the  legislation  about  copyright,  forced  from  the  hands 
of  unwilling  statesmen,  and  but  slowly  and  reluctantly 
improved  in  the  course  of  ages,  manifestly  supposes 
that  an  author's  work  should  be  regarded  as  public 
property,  with  the  right  of  every  one  to  enter  in  and 
take  his  share.  We  hear  a  great  deal  about  the  rights 
of  property,  especially  in  land  ;  and  any  violation  of 
those  rights  is  stigmatised  as  theft  or  confiscation. 
It  is  so  easy  to  forget  that  the  first  claim  or  right 
upon  property  should  be  the  right  of  creation  or 
production  ;  and  the  land  is  God's  creation,  and  the 
book  is  the  work  of  the  author.  But  the  idea  is  that 
an  author,  alone  of  all  producers,  should  be  a  public 
benefactor,  labouring  out  of  pure  philanthropy  for 
men's  souls  or  pleasures,  and  sacrificing  all  human 
and  personal  rights  by  reason  of  his  God-given 
faculty  for  teaching  or  pleasing  mankind.  Slowly 
and  reluctantly  the  public  is  losing  its  grasp  on  this 
pleasant  theory.  The  only  section  that  still  clings  to 
it  is  the  publishing  faculty,  who  seem  to  regard  the 
author  as  a  kind  of  journeyman,  who  has  no  rights, 
only  a  few  attenuated  privileges  ;  and  who  is  speci- 


8 

ally  created  by  God  to  furnish  his  publisher  with 
copy  that  will  swell  the  yearly  dividends,  and  help 
him  to  keep  his  carriage,  or  his  hunting-box  in  Scot- 
land. And  if  an  author  has  the  presumption  to  demand 
his  rights,  he  is  generally  greeted  with  the  exclamation 
of  surprise  that  met  poor  Oliver  Twist,  when  he  had 
the  temerity  to  ask  for  "  more." 

But  where  the  degradation  certainly  comes  in  is 
when  an  author,  avaricious  of  money  or  ambitious 
of  fame,  is  prepared  to  use,  or  abuse,  his  talents  to 
please  the  morbid  passions  of  the  multitude.  A 
writer  who  appeals  to  passion,  sensual  or  other  ;  who 
panders  to  religious  prejudice,  or  turns  a  sacred  talent 
into  a  political  agency  ;  the  author  who  sets  the 
"  maiden  fancies  wallowing  in  the  troughs  of  Zolaism," 
or  perverts  the  minds,  or  destroys  the  principles  of 
the  young,  should  meet  with  no  mercy.  Corruptto 
optimi  pessima  !  And  the  perversion  of  a  great  talent 
to  base  and  unworthy  uses  is  the  unforgivable  sin. 

So  far  for  the  principle.  But  can  an  author  make 
money  ?  Is  it  a  lucrative  profession  ?  We  have 
already  answered  that  question.  For  the  vast  majority 
of  writers,  who  hope  to  make  a  living  by  it,  it  is  the 
source  of  unspeakable  disappointment.  There  is 
-only  one  safe  advice  for  young  people  who  are  smitten 
\>y  a  passion  for  literature,  and  that  is  :  Let  it  be  your 
pleasure,  but  not  your  profession.  It  is  "  an  excellent 
walking-stick  ;  but  an  exceedingly  bad  crutch." 

Again,  I  cannot  see  why  an  author  should  not 
write  for  fame.  Fame,  or  rather  the  thirst  for  fame, 
is  "  the  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds  "  ;  but  it  is  an 
honourable  infirmity.  And  it  sometimes  takes  a 


AND   OTHER  ESSAYS  9 

shape  that  makes  it  akin  to  the  zeal  of  an  apostle. 
For  there  cannot  be  a  doubt  that  many  writers  take 
up  their  pens,  not  for  gain,  sordid  or  otherwise  ;  not 
for  life-advancement,  but  purely  with  the  desire  of 
influencing  the  minds  of  many  unto  good — the  desire 
of  creating  in  other  souls  the  high  ideas  and  lofty 
principles  with  which  they  themselves  are  animated. 
To  wish  to  have  one's  name  bruited  abroad  in  the 
press  and  amongst  the  public  may  be  a  paltry  thing, 
but  it  is  intelligible.  To  desire  to  influence  the  world 
by  the  magnetism  of  great  ideas  ;  to  desire  to  form 
even  one  link  in  the  electric  chain  that  stretches  down 
through  the  ages,  magnetising  generation  after  gene- 
ration with  thoughts  that  thrill  and  words  that  burn — 
this,  so  far  from  being  ignoble,  may  assume  the 
sacredness  of  a  vocation  and  an  apostleship.  "  Cast 
forth  thy  Act,  thy  Word,  into  the  ever-living,  ever- 
working  universe  ;  it  is  a  seed  grain  that  cannot  die  ; 
unnoticed  to-day,  it  will  be  found  flourishing  as  a 
Banyan-grove  after  a  thousand  years." 

II 

This  naturally  leads  us  to  consider  the  higher  and 
more  sacred  motives  that  influence  so  many  in  their 
choice  of  literature  as  a  profession.  The  first  of 
these  I  have  specified  as  a  love  of  books  and  their 
authors.  The  highest  worship  is  the  worship  of 
imitation.  Whosoever  sits  at  the  feet  of  Gamaliel 
seeks  to  become  like  unto  Gamaliel.  We  like  to 
create  what  we  admire  ;  and  whoever  has  a  favourite 
author  or  authors,  dreams  of  one  day  becoming  a 


io  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

source  of  light  and  leading  unto  others,  as  these 
authors  are  to  himself.  And  behind  that  passion  for 
imitation  is  the  instinct  that  seems  to  pervade  the 
whole  universe  ;  that  mysterious  and  sublime  impulse 
which  seems  almost  like  an  attribute  of  the  Divinity, 
imparted  in  measure  to  finite  beings — the  instinct  of 
creation  or  production.  You  see  it  everywhere  :  in 
the  atom,  in  the  mineral,  in  the  cell,  in  the  plant,  in 
the  animal.  The  same  tremendous  process  that 
rounds  a  nebula  into  a  sun,  carries  the  pollen  of  a 
flower  from  plant  to  plant  on  the  wings  of  a  bee  or 
a  butterfly  ;  and  the  same  mysterious  instinct  that 
vitalizes  a  seedling  compelled  Michael  Angelo  to  lie 
for  nights  and  days  on  the  summit  of  a  scaffold  to 
paint  the  frescoes  on  the  ceiling  of  the  Sistine  Chapel. 
And  it  is  the  same  mysterious  force  which  evolved 
Hamlet  and  Macbeth  that  is  stirring  in  the  heart  and 
brain  of  every  young  boy  or  girl  who  takes  up  a  sheet  of 
paper  for  the  first  time  to  write  the  first  vapid  story  or 
the  first  immature  poem.  And  vapid  though  the  story 
may  be,  and  immature  the  poem,  there  is,  beside  the 
creative  instinct  that  produced  it,  another  instinct  even 
more  wonderful,  an  innate  and  supersensuous  instinct 
to  create  only  what  is  perfect  and  beautiful.  This 
has  always  seemed  to  me  one  of  the  greatest  and  most 
unfathomable  mysteries  of  our  existence.  So  surely 
as  the  crystal  flakes  of  snow  form  and  dissolve  into 
facets  of  the  most  perfect  geometrical  proportions  ; 
so  surely  as  the  bee  creates,  with  unconscious  art,  the 
perfect  hexagons  of  his  cells  ;  so  surely  as  the  bird 
weaves  out  of  garden  refuse  his  most  beautiful  nest, 
and  the  flower  develops  its  painted  perfections  ;  so 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  11 

surely  does  the  instinct  of  beauty  and  harmony  ani- 
mate and  inspire  the  youngest  novice  in  the  art  of 
literature.  And  this  passion  for  the  beautiful,  or  this 
instinct  for  creating  the  beautiful,  is  innate  in  the 
human  mind,  as  it  is  innate  in  Nature.  Trelat  in 
his  Recherches  historiques  sur  lafolie  tells  us  that  "under 
the  influence  of  insanity  an  ignorant  person  will  make 
perfect  Latin  verses  ;  a  woman  will  sing  Latin  hymns 
and  verses  entirely  unknown  to  her."  Marce  records 
the  case  of  a  young  married  woman,  of  very  ordinary 
intelligence,  "  who,  under  an  attack  of  mania,  wrote 
letters  to  her  husband,  which  for  the  eloquence  and 
passionate  energy  of  their  style,  might  easily  be  placed 
beside  the  most  fervent  passages  in  the  Nouvelle 
Heloise"  Cases  of  dementia  have  been  known,  in 
which  young  men  of  the  most  ordinary  capacity,  and 
who  in  their  sane  moments  had  not  the  slightest 
artistic  perceptions,  have  produced  sketches,  some- 
times with  chalks,  sometimes  with  pencils,  sometimes 
with  a  red-hot  iron  on  a  piece  of  board,  which  experts 
refused  to  believe  were  not  the  work  of  supreme 
artists  ;  which  proves,  not  only  the  existence  of  a 
sub-consciousness  of  which  we  are  quite  unaware, 
but  also  of  a  latent  sense  of  artistic  beauty,  which 
only  needs  some  kind  of  sudden  emotion  to  be  deve- 
loped into  action.  Hence  I  see  in  the  crudest  efforts 
of  the  pen,  nothing  but  Nature  working  outwards 
towards  perfection. 

But  I  shall  be  met  at  once  by  the  objection  that  all 
this  instinct,  like  the  blind  instincts  of  Nature,  leads 
but  to  sad  and  melancholy  waste  ;  that  the  process 
of  natural  selection  holds  in  literature  as  in  everything 


12  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

else  ;  that  only  the  fittest  and  noblest  and  strong 
things  survive  ;  and  that  hence  it  would  be  much 
better  for  poetic  young  ladies  to  knit  stockings  than 
to  make  verses  ;  and  for  moon-struck  young  men 
to  take  up  a  spade  or  a  hoe,  and  let  the  pen  alone. 
True,  there  is  that  terrible  and  unaccountable  waste 
in  Nature  as  in  Art.  It  was  the  one  thing  that  troubled 
the  intellectual  serenity  of  Tennyson  in  his  old  age, 
and  shook  the  little  Christian  faith  that  he  possessed. 

"  So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems.      But  no  ! 
From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried  stone 
She  cries  :    A  thousand  types  are  gone, 
I  care  for  nothing.      All  shall  go  !  " 

It  is  not  the  origin  of  things,  but  the  utter  depravity 
of  Nature  in  sacrificing  with  criminal  and  profuse 
prodigality  all  that  is  created  with  so  much  pain 
that  forms  the  cardinal  puzzle  and  problem  of  exist- 
ence. If  the  elm-tree  produces  300,000  seeds  in  a 
year,  and  only  one  seed  becomes  an  elm  ;  if  but  one 
seed  of  200,000  of  the  purple  orchis  reaches  maturity, 
we  pronounce  Nature  a  shocking  wastrel.  But  it  does 
not  follow  that  the  seedling  that  fructified  was  more 
vigorous  and  healthful  than  the  thousands  that 
perished.  Their  environments  were  different,  and 
they  fell  under  the  other  instinct  of  destruction.  And 
I  say  that  it  is  quite  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  in 
Literature — out  of  the  countless  poems,  and  essays, 
and  dramas,  that  have  been  evolved  from  the  creative 
instinct  of  the  intellect — only  the  best  have  survived. 
I  do  not  wish  to  be  misunderstood.  I  do  not  affirm 
that  any  greater  epic  than  the  Iliad,  any  greater  drama 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  13 

than  Hamlet  or  Lear,  has  gone  down'the  waste-pipes 
of  time  into  the  gulf  of  oblivion.  But  I  do  affirm  that 
to-day  countless  essays  are  written,  printed,  read,  and 
forgotten  incomparably  greater  than  the  insolent 
platitudes  of  Macaulay  ;  and  that  countless  poems 
are  hidden  and  buried  away  in  magazines  that  far 
more  justly  entitle  their  authors  to  a  niche  in  the 
Temple  of  Fame  than  the  crudities  that  were  written 
by  the  poets  whom  Johnson  deemed  worthy  of  a 
place  in  his  gallery  of  mediocrities.  Tennyson  used  to 
say  that  many  thousands  of  lines,  quite  as  precious 
as  those  he  preserved,  went  up  his  chimney  in  clouds 
of  tobacco-smoke  ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  many 
a  fine  lyric  and  sonnet  has  helped  in  our  days  the 
utilities  which  he  anticipated  for  his  "  mortal  lullabies 
of  pain  " — 

"  To  bind  a  book,  to  line  a  box, 
Or  help  to  curl  a  maiden's  locks." 

What  then  are  we  to  say  ?  This — That,  inasmuch 
as  it  appears  to  be  the  law  of  Nature  to  create  pro- 
digally, by  virtue  of  the  secret  and  impervious  in- 
stinct that  prompts  creation  ;  and  that,  inasmuch  as 
these  creations,  again  obeying  the  behests  of  another 
secret  and  imperative  law,  always  round  to  perfection, 
even  though  the  vast  proportion  are  doomed  to  wanton 
destruction,  and  perhaps  only  one  solitary  specimen 
of  Nature's  creative  power  survives  ;  so  is  it  the  law 
of  Nature  that  the  young,  the  hopeful,  and  the  buoyant 
shall  seek  to  perpetuate  themselves  in  prose  and 
verse  ;  and  that  we  have  no  more  right  to  check  or 
destroy  that  instinct  than  we  have  to  interfere  with 
the  mechanical  operations  that  are  fortunately  placed 


14  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

altogether  beyond  our  control.  If  these  pen-produc- 
tions are  doomed  to  destruction,  well,  it  is  only  again 
the  law  of  Nature,  even  though  we  may  regret  it. 
If  they  survive,  they  remain  "  a  thing  of  beauty,  and 
a  joy  for  ever." 

Besides,  in  all  this  there  is  the  eternal  law  of  Chance. 
The  same  Chance  that  places  a  seedling  in  the  beak  of 
a  migratory  bird  and  bids  it  be  carried  to  some 
ocean-beaten  rock,  there  to  create  a  luxuriant  vege- 
tation, may  also  discover  and  reveal  some  hidden 
beauty  and  glory  in  literature.  Thomas  Gray  owes 
his  immortality  to  one  poem  ;  Blanco  White  to  one 
sonnet.  There  are  greater  poems  than  the  Elegy, 
which  never  have  been  heard  of.  There  are  incom- 
parably greater  sonnets  unrecognised  in  the  language 
than  the  famous  sonnet  on  "  Night."  And  there  is 
no  writer,  however  humble,  who  may  not  stumble  on 
an  immortal  line,  and  find  a  discriminating  critic  to 
recognise  it.  There  is  a  systole  and  diastole  in  all 
human  affairs  :  and  the  idols  of  this  generation  may 
strew  the  roads  of  the  next.  At  one  time  all  Europe 
went  mad  over  Byron  ;  and  it  was  seriously  debated 
in  Oxford  whether  Byron  or  Shelley  were  the  greater 
poet.  No  one  would  dream  of  asking  the  question 
now.  The  time  may  come  when  Shakespeare  will  be 
dethroned  :  for  there  is  a  good  deal  of  lying  about 
Shakespeare.  And  the  slaves  of  to-day  may  be  the 
kings  of  to-morrow. 

This  leads  me  quite  naturally  to  the  next  motive  I 
have  particularized  as  an  attraction  to  the  literary 
life — the  rapture  of  composition!  ! 

Now  it  is  quite  true  that  for  the  most  part  authors 
have  to  whip  and  spur  their  brains  until  the  jaded  or 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  15 

helpless  faculties  stir  themselves  reluctantly  to  work. 
Very  often  authors  have  to  write  against  time  to  com- 
plete an  engagement  or  to  meet  the  season  when  books 
are  most  in  demand.  This  is  the  drudgery  of  lite- 
rature ;  and  such  work,  under  such  circumstances, 
is  mostly  poor  and  transitory.  But  there  come 
moments  in  the  life  of  every  author — at  least,  of  every 
author  of  distinction,  when  they  seem  to  be  lifted 
above  the  earth,  and  to  see  a  sudden  opening  in  the 
firmament,  revealing  glimpses  of  Heaven.  Such 
moments  of  ecstasy  are  few  and  intermittent.  They 
cannot  be  foreseen  or  anticipated.  They  do  not 
come  and  go  with  the  rhythmic  swing  of  the  sea  ; 
but  capriciously  and  at  unexpected  times,  flashing 
sudden  lights  on  the  mind,  and  as  quickly  snapping 
and  extinguishing  them.  In  such  moments  not  only 
are  worlds  revealed  ;  but  with  the  inspiration  comes 
also  the  language  fitted  to  reveal  it — the  happy  ex- 
pression— the  one  word  out  of  a  million  that  adapts 
itself  with  a  precision  that  no  mere  Art  could  discover. 
I  feel  quite  sure  that  Shelley  experienced  this  when 
he  wrote  his  immortal  Ode  to  the  West  Wind,  and 
stumbled  upon  such  lines  as  : 

"  The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams 
Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay  ;  " 
and  : 

"  Thou, 

In  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 
Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  bear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  Ocean,  know 
Thy  voice  and  suddenly  grow  grey  with  fear." 


1 6  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

No  mere  cudgelling  of  brains  could  ever  elicit  that 
line  : 

"  Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay," 
or  that  expression  : 

"  The  sapless  foliage  of  the  Ocean." 
And  when  Keats  in  his  immortal  sonnet  on  Chap- 
man's Homer  wrote  : 

"  Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ; 

Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 

Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien," 

or  in  his  Ode  to  a  Nightingale,  broke  into  what  some 
consider  the  two  most  perfect  lines  in  all  English 
poetry  : 

"  Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn," 

he  must  have  experienced  something  like  the  levi- 
tation  of  spiritualists,  and  floated  in  the  air. 

And  when  Carlyle  said  to  his  wife,  on  the  comple- 
tion of  his  French  Revolution  :  "  There  !  They 
have  not  had  for  many  years  a  book  that  came  so 
flaming  hot  from  the  heart  of  any  man."  It  was  his 
rapture  at  having  perfected  an  immortal  work,  and 
an  ecstasy  of  defiance  to  a  heedless  or  stupid  public. 

HI 

But,  in  the  life  of  men  of  genius,  these,  alas  !  are 
transitory,  sudden,  intermittent  emotions.  As  a  rule, 
authors,  especially  of  the  higher  type,  are  very  un- 


AND   OTHER  ESSAYS  17 

happy  mortals.  Whether  it  be  the  perpetual  mental 
strain  producing  nervousness  and  irritability;  or 
whether  it  be  the  disappointment  of  baffled  hopes  ; 
or  whether  it  be  penury,  want,  or  neglect,  that  shall 
be  alleged  as  causes,  it  is  quite  certain  that  a  literary 
life  is  mostly  an  unhappy  one.  Sudden  raptures 
mean  chronic  depression  ;  and  the  ecstasies  of  a 
moment  scarcely  counterbalance  the  infelicities  of  a 
lifetime.  If  it  had  pleased  God  to  give  you  a  brain, 
the  grey  cortex  of  which  is  so  dull  and  unelastic  that 
no  external  impression  will  strike  a  spark  from  it, 
thank  God  for  the  favour  !  Or  if  you  are  endowed 
with  such  faculties  that  you  can  gaze  for  hours  stupidly 
into  the  fire  ;  or  lean  over  a  village  bridge  and  watch 
the  waters  curling  beneath ;  or  consume  infinite 
tobacco,  whilst  engaged  in  the  laudable  object  of 
killing  man's  worst  enemy — Time — thank  God  for 
it !  But  if  you  are  dowered  with  that  nervous  irri- 
tability called  genius,  throwing  out  thoughts  from 
the  brain  as  swiftly  as  the  crystal  drops  are  flung 

from  a  mill-wheel ah,  well,  you  may  know,  from 

time  to  time,  what  is  meant  by  the  ecstasy  and  rap- 
ture of  composition  ;  but  you  will  never  know  what 
happiness  means  in  this  life.  "  Where  thou  beholdest 
Genius,"  says  Goethe,  in  Tasso,  "there  thou  be- 
holdest, too,  the  martyr's  crown."  l 

Hence,  unquestionably,  a  literary  life  is  for  the 
most  part  an  unhappy  life  ;  because,  if  you  have 
genius,  you  must  suffer  the  penalty  of  genius  ;  and, 
if  you  have  only  talent,  there  are  so  many  cares  and 

1  du  das  Genie  erblickst 
Erblickst  du  auch  Zugleich  die  Martyrkrome. 
C 


i8  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

worries  incidental  to  the  circumstances  of  men  of 
letters,  as  to  make  life  exceedingly  miserable.  Besides 
the  pangs  of  composition,  and  the  continuous  dis- 
appointment which  a  true  artist  feels  at  his  inability 
to  reveal  himself,  there  is  the  ever-recurring  difficulty 
of  gaining  the  public  ear.  Young  writers  are  buoyed 
up  by  the  hope  and  the  belief  that  they  have  only  to 
throw  that  poem  at  the  world's  feet  to  get  back  in 
return  the  laurel-crown  ;  that  they  have  only  to  push 
that  novel  into  print  to  be  acknowledged  at  once  as 
a  new  light  in  literature.  You  can  never  convince  a 
young  author  that  the  editors  of  magazines  and  the 
publishers  of  books  are  a  practical  body  of  men,  who 
are  by  no  means  fanatically  anxious  about  placing 
the  best  literature  before  the  public.  Nay,  that,  for 
the  most  part,  they  are  mere  brokers,  who  conduct 
their  business  on  the  hardest  lines  of  a  Profit  and 
Loss  account. 

But  supposing  your  book  fairly  launched,  its  perils 
are  only  beginning.  You  have  to  run  the  gauntlet 
of  the  critics.  To  a  young  author,  again,  this  seems 
to  be  as  terrible  an  ordeal  as  passing  down  the  files 
of  Sioux  or  Comanche  Indians,  each  one  of  whom  is 
thirsting  for  your  scalp.  When  you  are  a  little  older, 
you  will  find  that  criticism  is  not  much  more  serious 
than  the  bye-play  of  clowns  in  a  circus,  when  they 
beat  around  the  ring  the  victim  with  bladders  slung 
at  the  end  of  long  poles.  A  time  comes  in  the  life  of 
every  author  when  he  regards  critics  as  comical, 
rather  than  formidable,  and  goes  his  way  unheeding. 
But  there  are  sensitive  souls  that  yield  under  the 
chastisement,  and,  perhaps  after  suffering  much  silent 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  19 

torture,  abandon  the  profession  of  the  pen  for  ever. 
Keats,  perhaps,  is  the  saddest  example  of  a  fine 
spirit  hounded  to  death  by  savage  criticism  ;  because, 
whatever  his  biographers  may  aver,  that  furious 
attack  of  Gifford  and  Terry  undoubtedly  expedited 
his  death.  But  no  doubt  there  are  hundreds  who 
suffer  keenly  from  hostile  and  unscrupulous  criticism  ; 
and  who  have  to  bear  that  suffering  in  silence,  because 
it  is  a  cardinal  principle  in  literature  that  the  most 
unwise  thing  in  the  world  for  an  author  is  to  take 
public  notice  of  criticism  in  the  way  of  defending 
himself.  Silence  is  the  only  safeguard,  as  it  is  the 
only  dignified  protest  against  insult  and  offence. 

Again,  although  there  is  a  good  deal  of  good  nature 
and  fraternal  feeling,  and  a  sense  of  camaraderie 
amongst  authors,  there  is  also  sometimes  "  war  on 
Parnassus."  I  do  not  know  anything  more  painful  and 
humiliating  than  to  see  a  beloved  poet  or  a  worshipped 
author,  descend  into  the  arena  of  vulgar  controversy. 
It  is  a  dethronement  of  our  idols  that  is  akin  to  loss 
of  faith.  Hence,  the  life  of  a  poet  should  never  be 
written.  The  world  should  be  satisfied  with  the 
legacy  of  his  immortal  works.  Hence  is  Shakespeare 
happy,  in  that  we  know  practically  nothing  about  his 
life.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  see  our  great  saints  of  lite- 
rature toppling  down  to  our  feet  in  some  wretched 
wordy  squabble.  I  think  Tennyson  acted  most 
wisely  in  excluding  from  the  collected  edition  of  his 
poems  his  terrible  and  scathing  reply  to  Lord  Lytton 
in  the  New  Timon.  Thackeray  is  not  raised  in  our 
esteem  by  his  resentment  against  Charlotte  Bronte 
for  his  supposed  likeness  to  Rochester.  Nor  does 


20  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

he  come  well  out  of  his  dispute  with  Edmuud  Yates, 
although,  as  a  man,  he  has  left  behind  him  a  most 
noble  character  for  magnanimity  and  lordly  munifi- 
cence. I  remember,  after  reading  Swinburne's 
exchanges  of  compliments  with  Eric  Mackay,  about 
a  fulsome  poem  published  by  the  latter  in  the  World, 
and  which  ended  in  an  attorney's  letter  and  a  cry  for 
the  police,  I  rubbed  my  eyes  and  asked  myself :  Is 
this  the  same  man  that  wrote  the  noble  choruses  in 
Atalanta,  and  the  sublime  elegy  on  the  Death  of 
Barry  Cornwall?  Mr.  Froude,  an  unreliable  his- 
torian, but  an  accomplished  litterateur,  did  wisely  in 
never  answering  the  fierce  onslaughts  that  were  made 
on  him  and  his  works,  especially  by  his  brother- 
historian,  Freeman.  But  his  reputation  was  not 
served  by  his  post-mortem  revelations,  in  which  he 
says  with  acrimony  : 

"  I  never  resented  anything  more  than  that  article 
in  the  Quarterly.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  tied  to  a  post, 
and  a  mule  was  brought  up  to  kick  me.  Some  day 
I  think  I  shall  take  my  reviewers  all  round,  and  give 
them  a  piece  of  my  mind.  I  acknowledge  to  find  real 
mistakes  in  the  whole  work  of  12  volumes — about 
twenty  trifling  slips,  equivalent  to  i's  not  dotted,  and 
t's  not  crossed  ;  and  that  is  all  the  utmost  malignity 
has  discovered.  Every  one  of  the  rascals,  too,  has 
made  a  dozen  blunders  of  his  own  while  detecting 
one  of  mine  ....  You  may  have  seen  Free- 
man's papers  in  the  Contemporary.  You  will  be  glad 
to  hear  that  he  is  changing  his  mind  on  the  Eastern 
question.  That  I  should  be  on  the  same  side  con- 
vinces him  that  he  must  be  wrong." 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  21 

I  quote  this  to  show  how  unwise  it  is  for  aggrieved 
authors  to  lift  the  veil  on  their  feelings,  and  compel 
the  small  world  to  ask,  how  such  anger  can  find  a 
place  in  celestial  minds  ? 

But  it  proves  that  the  literary  life  is  not  all  sunshine. 
I  spoke  of  the  eternal  and  universal  law  of  repro- 
duction. But  there  is  the  counter  instinct,  alas  ! 
also  eternal  and  universal,  and  only  too  well  developed 
in  the  human  heart- — the  instinct  of  attack  and 
destruction  ;  and  this  always  finds  its  object  in  what- 
ever is  most  fair  and  beautiful.  Weeds  have  no 
parasites.  These  latter  find  their  way  to  the  under 
leaf  of  rose  and  lily. 

I  think  that  here,  too,  may  be  found  a  remote  reason 
for  the  profound  pessimism  that  seems  to  be  a  cha- 
racteristic of  all  great  geniuses.  The  little  we  know 
of  Shakespeare,  his  temporal  prosperity,  and  his  placid 
bust,  seem  to  mark  him  as  an  exception.  But  no  ! 
The  man  who  wrote  Timon  and  Lear,  and  the  sad 
words  about  adversity  and  ingratitude,  took  but  a 
sombre  view  of  life  and  humanity  ;  whilst  running 
through  the  golden  web  of  his  Sonnets  is  a  dark  line, 
denoting  the  profound  depression  and  melancholy  of 
his  character.  Milton's  solemn  sadness  is  everywhere 
in  his  poems.  Wordsworth  expresses  his  convictions 
in  such  lines  as  : 

"  The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity," 
and 

"  The  burden  and 
The  weight  of  all  this  unintelligible  world." 


22  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

Byron  was  a  misanthrope  for  ever  railing  against  his 
kind.      Shelley,  in  the  lines  : 

"  Yet,  now  despair  itself  is  mild 
Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are, 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child 
And  weep  away  the  life  of  care  : 
Which  I  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear," 

typifies  the  same. 

I  need  not  quote  Carlyle  or  Tennyson — the  two 
saddest  souls  of  modern  times  ;  nor  George  Eliot ; 
nor  the  host  of  great  thinkers,  who,  having  set  out  on 
the  journey  of  life  with  buoyant  hopes  and  aspirations, 
closed  their  eyes  on  this  world,  like  the  ancient  pro- 
phets, with  a  uoe  upon  their  lips. 

But,  besides  the  petty  annoyances  and  grinding 
cares  inseparable  from  the  literary  life,  there  was 
another  cause  for  their  pessimism.  It  was  this  : 

All  great  thinkers  live  and  move  on  a  high  plane 
of  thought.  It  is  only  there  they  can  breathe  freely. 
It  is  only  in  contact  with  spirits  like  themselves  they 
can  live  harmoniously  and  attain  that  serenity  which 
comes  from  ideal  companionship.  The  studies  of  all 
great  thinkers  must  range  along  the  highest  altitudes 
of  human  thought.  I  cannot  remember  the  name  of 
any  illuminative  genius  who  did  not  drink  his  inspira- 
tions from  the  fountains  of  ancient  Greek  and  Hebrew 
writers  ;  or  such  among  the  moderns  as  were  pupils 
in  ancient  thought,  and,  in  turn,  became  masters  in 
their  own.  I  have  always  thought  that  the  strongest 
argument  in  favour  of  the  Baconian  theory  was,  that 
no  man,  however  indubitable  his  genius,  could  have 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  23 

written  the  plays  and  sonnets  that  have  come  down 
to  us  under  Shakespeare's  name  who  had  not  the 
liberal  education  of  Bacon.  How  this  habit  of  inter- 
course with  the  gods  makes  one  impatient  of  mere 
men.  The  magnificent  ideals  that  have  ever  haunted 
the  human  mind,  and  given  us  our  highest  proofs  of 
a  future  immortality  by  reason  of  the  impossibility 
of  their  fulfilment  here,  are  splintered  into  atoms  by 
contact  with  life's  realities.  Hence  comes  our  sublime 
discontent.  You  will  notice  that  your  first  sensation 
after  reading  a  great  book  is  one  of  melancholy  and 
dissatisfaction.  The  ideas,  sentiments,  expressions, 
are  so  far  beyond  those  of  ordinary  working  life  that 
you  cannot  turn  aside  from  one  to  the  other  without 
an  acute  sensation  and  consciousness  of  the  contrast. 
And  the  principles  are  so  lofty,  so  superhuman  that 
it  is  a  positive  pain,  if  once  you  become  imbued 
with  them,  to  come  down  and  mix  in  the  squalid 
surroundings  of  ordinary  humanity.  It  may  be 
spiritual  or  intellectual  pride  that  is  engendered  on 
this  high  plane — intellectual  life.  But  whatever  it  is, 
it  becomes  inevitable.  An  habitual  meditation  on 
the  vast  problems  that  underlie  human  life,  and  are 
knit  into  human  destinies — thoughts  of  immortality, 
of  the  littleness  of  mere  man,  of  the  greatness  of  man's 
soul,  of  the  splendours  of  the  universe  that  are  in- 
visible to  the  ordinary  traffickers  in  the  street,  as  the 
vastness  of  St.  Peter's  is  to  the  spider  that  weaves 
her  web  in  a  corner  of  the  dome — these  things  do 
not  fit  men  to  understand  the  average  human  being, 
or  tolerate  with  patience  the  sordid  wretchedness  of 
the  unregenerate  masses.  Faust  in  his  midnight  study 


24  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

was  a  perplexed  man,  because  he  was  always  pursuing 
the  phantoms  of  the  Unknown,      Had  he  touched 
earth,  and  then  gone  back  to  his  books  and  alembics, 
he  would  have  become  a  cynic  and  a  pessimist.     He 
remained  on  the  lower  levels,  enjoyed  all  the  lower 
pleasures,  suffered  all  the  lower  pains,  and  all  the 
disillusion  that  comes  from  contact  with  humanity. 
You  cannot  come  down  from  the  society  of  Plato 
without  being  slightly  disgusted  with  John  Anderson  ; 
nor    can  you  descend  from  "  the  sacred  everlasting 
calm  "  of  the  immortal  spirits  of  our  race  without 
suffering  irritation  at  the  petty,  frivolous,  and  stupid 
things  that  seem  to  occupy  nine-tenths  of  the  time  of 
some  of  your  acquaintance.      And  when  you  draw 
aside    and    watch    this    swirling,    turbulent    tide    of 
humanity,  carrying  with  it  the  straws  and  mud  and 
refuse  of  the  world,  it  is  not  easy  to  take  a  hopeful  or 
sanguine  view  of  the  future  of  the  race.      It  is  easy 
to  understand,  therefore,  why  such  thinkers  fly  to 
the  solitude  of  their  own  thoughts,  or  the  silent  com- 
panionship of  the  immortals  ;   and  if  they  do  care  to 
present  their  views  in  prose  or  verse  to  the  world, 
that  these  views  take  a  sombre  and  melancholy  setting 
from  "  the  pale  cast  of  thought  "  in  which  they  were 
engendered.     I  know  but  one  exception  to  this  uni- 
versal   scepticism — the    case    of    Robert    Browning. 
He    was,  apparently,  a  childish,  guileless  optimist, 
"  believing  all  things,  hoping  all  things,  loving  all 
things."    But  I  explain  the  singular  fact  by  the  theory 
that  Browning,  unlike  all  his  great  contemporaries, 
was  a  society  man.     He  gave  as  much  time  to  mortals 
as  to  the  immortals  ;  and  the  contrast,  therefore,  was 
not  so  painful  or  pronounced. 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  25 


IV 


Perhaps  you  will  be  surprised,  after  this  enumera- 
tion of  the  many  trials  and  drawbacks  in  the  literary 
life,  when  I  draw  the  strange  conclusion  that  I  most 
earnestly  recommend  it  to  those  whose  tastes  lead  in 
that  direction  ;  but  always  with  the  condition  that  it 
is  regarded  not  as  a  profession  or  means  towards 
an  independent  livelihood.  And  I  recommend  it  for 
a  threefold  reason  :  First,  as  a  resource  and  pleasure 
in  those  hours  of  depression  or  ennui  that  come  to 
all ;  second,  as  a  refining  and  exalting  influence  ; 
third,  as  a  possible  Apostolate. 

There  is  certainly  no  greater  or  more  lasting 
mental  resource  than  a  taste  for  letters  or  the  literary 
life.  Music  palls  upon  many  ;  social  pleasures  are 
not  always  available  or  desirable.  But  the  art  of  com- 
position, once  acquired,  is  never  lost,  and  never 
wearies  ;  and  you  can  pursue  it  without  extraneous 
aid  and  in  that  solitude  that  is  so  dear  to  those  who 
try  to  think  deeply.  "  I  know  no  greater  pleasure," 
wrote  Jean  Paul,  "  and  few  more  refining,  than  for 
a  young  man  to  open  his  portfolio,  and  walking  up 
and  down  his  room,  strive  to  spoil  that  virgin  page 
with  words  that  may  be  immortal."  And  if  you  are 
fortunate  enough  to  get  into  print,  so  much  the  better. 

It  seems  to  me  that  Reading  Circles  or  Guilds  in 
our  chief  towns  and  cities  might  help  materially,  not 
only  the  cultivation  of  literary  tastes,  but  the  calling 
or  vocation  to  a  literary  life.  Such  Circles  exist,  and 
are  productive  of  much  good,  in  all  the  great  cities  of 


26  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

America  ;  and  are  carried  on  through  the  summer 
months  in  the  summer  schools  at  Lake  Champlain 
and  elsewhere.  At  these  meetings  not  only  are  the 
great  classics  discussed  and  read,  but  also  individual 
efforts  on  the  part  of  members  are  encouraged  by 
being  brought  forward,  and  eagerly  criticised.  It  is 
quite  possible  that  with  that  sarcastic  vein  that  runs 
through  the  Irish  temperament,  and  in  the  absence 
of  that  gentle,  serious  tone  that  makes  so  much  for 
harmony,  that  a  game  of  bridge  or  bezique  might  be 
better  adapted  to  sustain  these  amenities  that  go  so 
far  to  make  our  social  intercourse  tolerable.  But  it 
would  be  a  decided  impulse  towards  literary  produc- 
tion if  there  could  be  established  in  our  midst  a  few 
little  coteries  where  a  young  author  might  be  heard 
before  coming  in  front  of  the  footlights.  I  am  aware 
that  philosophers  who  have  studied  the  intricacies  of 
human  nature  think  otherwise.  Leopardi  says,  that 
the  reading  of  compositions  is  "  a  social  scourge,  a 
public  calamity,  and  adds  a  new  terror  to  life  "  ;  and 
he  quotes  the  opinion  of  a  learned  friend,  who  said 
that  if  it  be  true  that  the  Empress  Octavia  fainted 
away  while  Virgil  was  reading  to  her  the  sixth  canto 
of  his  &neid,  we  may  be  sure  that  her  swoon  was 
caused,  not  by  the  poet's  pathetic  allusion  to  the  fate 
of  Marcellus,  but  from  sheer  fatigue  arid  weariness 
of  the  poet's  reading.  And  it  is  no  violent  stretch  of 
imagination  to  suppose  that  in  a  witty  city  like  this, 
some  young  censor  might,  like  Diogenes  of  old,  lean 
over  the  shoulder  of  some  unhappy  reader  and  exclaim 
as  he  saw  the  blank  spaces  at  the  bottom  of  the  page 
"  Courage,  my  friends,  I  see  land  at  last  !  " 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  27 

But  if  it  is  a  daring  thing  to  suggest  the  formation 
of  Reading  Guilds  in  our  midst  I  am  about  to  do  a 
desperate  thing  in  suggesting,  as  an  incentive  to  a 
literary  life,  the  establishment  of  a  purely  literary 
journal.  We  are  so  deluged  with  journals  and  reforms, 
and  methods  of  reform,  that  I  am  sure  at  the  very 
suggestion  you  will  cast  up  your  eyes  and  say,  "  Yet 
another  !  "  But  on  the  one  hand,  there  cannot  be  a 
doubt  of  the  steady  decadence,  and  even  extinction, 
of  these  literary  tastes  in  our  midst,  which  originated 
fifty  or  sixty  years  ago  in  the  hedge  schools,  and  which, 
helped  by  the  tone  of  the  public  journals,  constituted 
quite  an  Augustine  age  in  our  literature.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  is  quite  useless  to  look  to  our  schools  or 
educational  system  for  such  a  revival  of  tastes  as 
would  place  us  on  a  level  with  the  cultured  classes 
of  other  nations.  But  no  one  can  deny  that  the  literary 
talent  requisite  for  working  successfully  a  great 
literary  journal  is  available  in  Ireland.  One  Dublin 
magazine,  if  it  were  limited  to  purely  literary,  scien- 
tific, or  artistic  subjects,  would  have  all  the  elements 
of  a  great  literary  organ.  And  a  small  quarto  paper, 
published  some  years  ago  in  Dublin,  commanded,  it 
was  quite  clear,  the  highest  literary  talent  amongst 
us  ;  but  it  was  steered,  from  the  day  it  was  launched, 
right  on  the  rocks  and  shoals  of  religious  and  political 
controversy,  and,  of  course,  suffered  shipwreck  ! 
But  I  suppose  I  am  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  and  we  shall 
let  it  pass. 

I  hold  in  the  second  place  that  a  literary  life  is 
necessarily  a  life  of  refinement  and  culture.  I  cannot 
see  how  it  can  be  otherwise.  I  cannot  see  how  any 


28  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

man  or  woman,  living  habitually  with  the  prophets 
and  seers  of  the  race,  can  descend  willingly  to  the 
lower  levels  of  sense  or  self-interest.  And  I  again 
repeat  that  no  man  can  attain  conspicuous  literary 
success,  or  become  a  light  to  his  generation,  unless 
he  has  sat  an  obedient  pupil  at  the  feet  of  the  great 
masters  in  his  art.  I  know  you  may  quote  against  me 
certain  poets  and  philosophers  who  preached  or  sang 
divinely  and  lived  diabolically.  But  que  voulez-vous  ? 
The  diva,  who  at  ten  o'clock,  in  yonder  theatre,  is 
raising  you  to  the  third  heavens  on  the  wings  of  her 
voice,  will  sup  at  twelve  on  oysters  and  champagne. 
You  cannot,  alas  !  dissever  the  human  from  the  divine. 
But  I  cannot  see  how  anyone  who  has  been  reading, 
say,  the  Dialogues  of  Plato  ;  or  who  has  just  finished 
that  chapter,  "  The  Everlasting  Year,"  in  the  Third 
Book  of  Sartor  Resartus,  can  be  greedy  at  a  restaurant 
or  can  join  in  a  circle  of  scandal,  or  cheat  his  neigh- 
bour at  whist.  Of  course  there  is  the  danger  of 
ultra-refinement,  of  looking  down  upon  "  the  man  in 
the  street."  But  this  danger  is  remote,  except,  as 
I  have  said,  in  the  pessimism  of  great  authors.  Most 
others  will  come  down  from  Olympus  with  only 
Infinite  Pity  in  their  hearts  for  poor,  sordid,  struggling 
humanity. 

Lastly  (and  I  am  sure  you  are  as  well  pleased  with 
the  word,  as  when  you  hear  in  Church,  "  One  word 
more,  and  I  have  done  "),  there  is  the  Apostolate  of 
Literature.  It  is  a  subject  that  might  be  developed 
not  only  into  a  Lecture,  but  into  a  Book  ;  and  I  am 
acting  unwisely  in  giving  it  but  a  paragraph  at  the 
end  of  a  paper.  But  I  shall  address  myself  only  to 
one  aspect  of  it. 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  29 

I  feel  that  I  am  contravening  the  opinions  of  each 
and  every  section  into  which  modern  Ireland  is 
divided  when  I  say,  that  in  the  work  of  nation-build- 
ing the  chief  requisite  would  be  architects  of  large, 
liberal  ideas,  gathered  from  the  world's  chief  thinkers, 
and  assimilated  so  perfectly  that  they  would  be 
manifested  in  firmer  judgments,  wider  speculations, 
more  generous  sympathies,  and  larger  toleration  than 
we  find  in  our  little  world  of  to-day.  And  I  do  not 
know  where  that  knowledge  and  experience  are  to  be 
acquired,  unless  at  the  feet  of  "  the  masters  of  those 
who  know,"  in  every  age,  of  every  country  and  clime. 
And  whilst  I  am  very  proud  of  being  an  ardent  propa- 
gandist of  the  Gaelic  League,  I  cannot  sympathise 
with  those  who  think,  I  am  sure  honestly 
and  sincerely,  that  we  should  only  read  Irish 
books,  and  write  on  Irish  subjects ;  and  who 
speak  with  some  contempt  of  Anglo-Irish  writers 
and  cosmopolitan  patriots.  If  such  ideas  had 
been  accepted  in  other  countries,  I  wonder  where 
the  literary  glories,  nay,  the  political  triumphs 
of  England,  France,  Germany,  Spain,  and  Italy 
would  be  to-day  ?  If  Shakespeare  had  not  ran- 
sacked the  world  for  subjects,  where  would  be  Julius 
Caesar  and  Coriolanus,  Hamlet  and  Othello,  The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice,  Romeo  and  Juliet  ?  If  Milton  had 
limited  his  ideas  within  the  British  seas,  we  would 
not  have  had  Paradise  Lost  or  Samson  Agonistes. 
Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats  would  be  represented  by 
one  sonnet  or  lyric  and  an  angry  diatribe.  Swinburne 
would  not  exist,  except  in  some  political  harangue. 
If  Tasso,  Dante,  Alfieri,  had  followed  a  similar  prin- 


30  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

ciple,  Italian  literature  would  be  almost  limited  to 
Petrarch's  Sonnets.  And  if  the  great  French  trage- 
dians had  not  gone  to  antiquity  for  subjects,  the 
names  of  Racine  and  Corneille  would  be  practically 
unknown.  In  a  word,  you  would  blot  out  the  world's 
literature  if  you  only  regarded  what  was  purely  racial 
or  national  in  the  productions  of  the  great  masters  of 
literature,  in  every  age,  and  country,  and  clime. 

Nor  is  it  reasonable  that  it  should  be  otherwise. 
There  is  a  certain  fund  of  original  thought  stored  up 
in  the  written  archives,  the  unwritten  traditions,  and 
the  daily  habitudes  of  every  race.  And  if  thought  is 
the  parent  of  thought,  and  language  its  vehicle,  I  think 
that  that  nation  would  soon  be  starved  which  would 
limit  itself  to  the  creations  of  its  own  children.  Even 
if  it  be  said  that  home  thoughts  are  the  best  thoughts, 
well,  they  will  become  more  valuable  by  being  ap- 
praised by  comparison  with  the  ideas  of  others.  But 
certainly  in  our  days,  when  we  may  be  on  the  eve 
of  tremendous  changes,  I  would  wish  for  systems  of 
education,  based  on  broader  principles  than  we  now 
possess  ;  and  as  that  seems  almost  beyond  the  horizon 
of  our  hopes,  I  would  wish  to  see  literary  tastes  more 
widely  extended  and  more  liberally  developed,  to  the 
end  that,  with  larger  views  and  freer  sympathies,  we 
might  be  able  to  view  the  present  condition  of  our 
country,  as  it  were,  in  the  perspective,  the  true  per- 
spective of  solid  judgment,  and  unbiassed  and  un- 
prejudiced sympathies.  And  as  we  cannot,  as  a  nation, 
go  outside  ourselves  without  courting  self-destruc- 
tion, the  only  thing  that  seems  possible  and  feasible 
is  to  take  our  stand,  side  by  side,  with  the  master- 


AND   OTHER  ESSAYS  31 

thinkers  of  the  ages,  and  try  and  look  at  ourselves 
with  their  eyes.  I  think  if  we  did  so  we  should  see 
many  things  in  a  different  light  from  that  in  which 
they  now  appear  ;  and  that  our  views  of  men  and 
their  institutions,  their  laws  and  habits,  their  history, 
and  their  present  political  and  economic  conditions, 
their  relations  to  each  other,  and  to  the  world  with 
which  they  are  brought  into  contact  ;  their  social, 
religious,  and  political  antipathies,  narrowed  and  con- 
centrated in  the  focus  of  great  cosmic  principles 
would  seem  to  us  capable  of  much  emendation  ;  that 
is,  if  we  were  really  prepared  to  emerge  from  the 
toils  of  factions  and  parties,  and  walk  in  the  broader 
way  of  free  and  unfettered  principle.  And  as  educa- 
tion cannot  come  down  to  the  masses  of  the  people, 
and  there  is  no  pedagogue  system  so  wide  as  to 
embrace  a  whole  nation,  nothing  seems  to  remain  for 
us  in  Ireland  but  an  apostolate  of  Literature,  where 
books  will  be  our  University,  and  each  man  a  teacher 
unto  himself. 

I  do  not  despair  of  seeing  yet  in  Ireland — in  its 
populous  centres,  which  ought  to  become  luminous 
points,  radiating  light  all  around  ;  and  its  quiet, 
country  places,  where  all  the  surroundings  are  favour- 
able to  peaceful  thought  and  meditation — large 
circles  of  thinkers,  devoted  to  literature,  and  science, 
and  art,  and  insensibly  leading  up  the  masses  of  the 
people  to  their  own  regions  of  high  thought,  and 
refined  and  exalted  sentiment.  I  feel  sure  that  outside 
the  storm-belt,  the  torrid  zone  of  political  life,  there 
must  be  many  of  both  sexes  who  desire  to  live  more 
gentle  lives  in  the  temperate  regions  where  passion 


32  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

has  no  place,  where  there  is  no  intriguing,  no  states- 
manship (as  the  euphemism  has  it),  no  contention, 
except  the  academic  striving  after  literary  success,  or 
a  calm  and  passionless  debate  about  a  point  of  art,  or 
a  subtlety  of  expression.  Such  a  literary,  shall  I  say 
ideal,  world  must  not  expect  recognition.  Nothing 
is  recognised  in  Ireland  except  what  is  entangled  in 
the  meshes  of  politics.  The  last  trump  of  doom  would 
sound  before  we  would  think  of  putting  up  a  monu- 
ment to  such  a  thinker  as  Bishop  Berkeley.  It  is  quite 
different  with  other  nationalities,  who  look  at  things 
with  "  larger,  other  eyes  "  than  ours.  The  great, 
generous  American  people  do  not  ask  if  a  dead  poet 
were  a  Democrat  or  a  Republican,  whether  he  was 
enmeshed  in  the  toils  of  Tammany  or  other  political 
organisation.  They  only  ask  :  Was  he  a  Poet  ?  and 
they  recognise  his  worth  accordingly.  The  great 
German  nation  acknowledge  as  the  "  bright,  par- 
ticular star "  of  its  firmament,  Goethe,  who  was 
decidedly  unpatriotic  in  our  sense  of  the  word.  It 
would  seem  difficult  to  defend  the  man  who  was  so 
absolutely  indifferent  to  the  fate  of  his  country  during 
the  Napoleonic  invasion  that  he  was  engrossed  in 
fossil-hunting  at  the  very  time  that  the  battle  of 
Zena  was  raging  outside  the  walls  of  his  dwelling. 
But,  because  he  was  the  supreme  artist  and  inter- 
preter of  his  nation,  he  has  obtained  the  first  place  in 
the  Temple  of  Fame,  which  is  so  well  and  honourably 
crowded  with  the  effigies  of  artists  and  men  of  letters, 
scientists  and  politicians,  statesmen  and  orators,  in 
the  Fatherland. 

I  cannot  recall  just  now  any  public  recognition  of 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  33 

genius  in  Ireland — of  genius  as  such,  and  apart  from 
political  services — except  that  most  brilliant  and 
honourable  episode  in  the  history  of  Trinity  College, 
when,  on  the  I5th  August,  1835,  in  the  presence  of 
three  hundred  members  of  the  British  Association, 
and  all  the  Fellows  of  Trinity,  assembled  in  the 
dining-hall  of  the  College,  a  young  Professor  and 
Fellow,  of  twenty-seven  years,  William  Rowan  Hamil- 
ton, was  suddenly  summoned  by  the  Viceroy  and 
knighted,  "  not,"  as  his  Excellency  said,  "  as  con- 
ferring a  distinction,  but  as  setting  the  royal  and 
national  mark  on  a  distinction  already  acquired  by 
genius  and  labour." 

But  this  is  not  the  point.  I  am  contemplating  a 
condition  of  things  where  literature  will  be  pursued 
for  its  own  sake,  and  for  the  effects  it  must  necessarily 
have  on  those  who  are  happy  to  be  its  votaries.  I  do 
not  yet  despair  of  seeing  a  shelf  of  books  in  every 
labourer's  cottage  in  the  land.  I  do  not  despair  of 
seeing  our  artisans  seeking  their  evening  recreation 
and  their  Sunday  pleasure  in  the  company  of  great 
thinkers  and  sweet  singers.  I  hope  I  may  see  the 
time  when  one  could  say  "  Dante  "  or  "  Browning," 
without  inducing  the  dread  silence  of  an  earthquake 
panic  in  the  higher  circles  of  the  land  ;  and  when 
one  might  say  "  Turner  "or  "  Botticelli  "  without 
incurring  the  suspicion  of  affectation  or  pedantry. 
The  day  may  be  remote  ;  when  it  comes  it  will  usher 
in  a  Golden  Age,  fraught  with  vast  possibilities  for 
the  social,  religious,  and  political  welfare  of  Ireland. 
For  our  social  advancement — inasmuch  as  it  may 
raise  the  tone  of  daily  life  and  bring  an  atmosphere 

D 


34  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

of  refinement  and  gentleness  where  now  there  is  too 
much  persiflage  and  frivolity.  For  our  religious  well- 
being — because  the  deeper  we  read  the  stronger 
becomes  our  hold  on  those  cardinal  dogmas  and 
principles  that  are  common  to  all  Christian  creeds. 
"  The  contemplative  Atheist,"  says  Lord  Bacon,  "  is 
rare.  A  little  philosophy  inclineth  man's  mind  to 
Atheism  ;  but  depth  in  philosophy  bringeth  men's 
minds  around  to  religion."  For  our  political  welfare — 
for  a  commonwealth  founded  by  a  people  of  large 
knowledge,  trained  understanding,  quickened  per- 
ceptions, and  solid  principles,  that  will  not  sway  to 
every  wind  of  speech,  will  have  elements  of  stability 
and  permanency,  with  "  Freedom  slowly  broadening 
down,  from  precedent  to  precedent." 

As  yet  we  live  by  hope  :  but  we  must  work  on, 
humbly  and  hopefully  straining  after  an  ideal,  doing 
our  duty  in  the  narrowest  social  and  parochial  sur- 
roundings, and  trusting  that  an  aggregate  of  effort 
will  achieve  success  in  more  spacious  times  and  more 
gentle  surroundings  than  it  is  our  lot  to  experience 
at  present. 


OPTIMISM 

ii 

IN   LITERATURE 

The  clever  agent  of  a  circus-troupe — sent  in 
advance  with  bills  and  flaming  posters  to  excite  the 
curiosity  of  the  young,  and  it  may  be,  of  the  old — 
generally  has  some  latent  charm,  hidden  away  under 
some  obscure  and  unknown  phrase,  to  stimulate  all 
the  more  the  curiosity  of  his  future  clients,  and  assure 
himself  of  their  sixpences.  Somewhat  in  the  same 
way  I  was  awfully  tempted  to  call  this  lecture  by  some 
mysterious  name,  so  that,  if  you  were  not  tempted 
to  come  for  the  lecturer's  sake,  you  might  come 
through  that  universal  and  insatiable  little  vice — 
curiosity.  And  I  had  no  trouble  in  finding  such  a 
phrase  ;  for,  as  Robert  Browning  is  my  ideal  of  an 
optimist  poet — indeed  the  only  optimist  poet  of  our 
generation  ;  and  as  Robert  Browning's  verses  are 
synonymous  with  everything  that  is  obscure,  involved, 
or — to  use  a  word  that  has  a  special  interest  at  present 
through  Dr.  Jameson  and  Oom  Paul — outlandish,  I 
had  only  to  open  this  little  duodecimo  volume  and 
presto  I  here  is  the  word,  ready,  cut,  and  dry — "  Pippa 
passes."  Not  to  keep  you  too  long  on  the  tenter- 

35 


36  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

hooks  of  expectation,  let  me  say  at  once,  that  Pippa 
is  a  little  Italian  girl,  working  in  a  silk  factory  in  Asolo, 
and  Pippa  has  got  a  holiday.  It  is  a  rare  event ;  and 
she  is  determined  to  enjoy  it  to  the  uttermost.  She 
will  not  squander  a  wavelet  of  it ;  no,  not  "  one  mite 
of  her  twelve  hours'  treasure."  Now  Pippa,  like  all 
Italians,  can  sing  ;  and  she  goes  around  the  vine-clad 
hills,  and  down  the  singing  valleys,  with  a  carol  on 
her  lips,  and  lightness  in  her  heart  ;  and  the  burden 
of  her  song  is  this  : 

The  year's  at  the  spring, 
And  day's  at  the  morn  ; 
Morning's  at  seven  ; 
The  hill-side's  dew-pearled  ; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing  ; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn  ; 
God's  in  his  heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world ! 

Now,  it  happens,  as  she  goes  along,  four  distinct 
groups  of  persons,  unseen  by  her — four  groups,  who 
are  contemplating  either  crimes  or  critical  balances  in 
their  lives,  are  so  affected  by  her  simple  artless  song, 
full  of  hope  and  trust,  that  they  pause — some  stricken 
by  remorse  ;  others,  appalled  at  the  step  they  were 
about  to  take.  And  all,  touched  by  the  simple  faith 
of  this  child,  are  moved  to  change  into  better  and 
hopefuller  things  ;  and  consciences  seared  with  sin, 
and  hearts  hardened  in  iniquity,  spring  towards  better 
and  loftier  things  by  the  tender  faith  of  this  guileless 
child. 


37 

Now  the  burden  of  her  song  : — 

God's  in  his  heaven, 
All's  right  with  the  world, 

is  the  burden  of  all  Browning's  poetry.  He  is  essen- 
tially— Browning  the  optimist.  "  All's  right  with  the 
world."  This  note  runs  through  all  his  poems.  In 
Nature,  in  Man,  in  Science,  in  Social  life — every- 
where, there  is  either  some  good,  or  some  tendency 
towards  final  good.  He  will  not  see  gloom  anywhere  ; 
and  should  a  passing  cloud  darken  his  sunlight,  he 
looks  only  at  the  silver  lining.  You  remember  the 
melancholy  of  Tennyson  :  and  how  he  made  the 
lonely  mere,  the  sombre  sky,  the  cold  grey  stones  of 
the  sea,  etc.,  typify  his  own  sombre  spirit.  Browning 
will  not  have  this. 

"  The  lark 

Soars  up  and  up,  shivering  for  very  joy  ; 
Afar  the  ocean  sleeps  ;    white  fishing  gulls 
Flit  where  the  strand  is  purple  with  its  tribe 
Of  nested  limpets  ;    savage  creatures  seek 
Their  loves  in  wood  and  plain — and  God  renews 
His  ancient  rapture  !  " 

The  same  spirit  pervades  all  his  poems.  Where 
others  spell  failure,  despair,  despondency,  Browning 
spells  success,  hope,  and  that  lofty  elevation  of  spirit 
that  passes  from  mere  human  joy  to  the  highest 
dreams  of  inspiration.  Of  course  there  are  flaws  in 
the  handiwork  of  creation  ;  but  they  only  show  the 
grace  and  beauty  of  the  rest  of  the  work,  and  they 
in  turn  will  be  filled  up  and  polished  into  perfect- 
ness.  There  are  discords  in  the  music,  but  they  only 


38  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

emphasise  the  harmony  ;  and  life,  with  all  its  sorrows, 
is  very  sweet  and  good,  and  a  gift  from  Heaven,  and 
can  be  rounded  into  perfect  form  by  our  own  efforts, 
that  is,  if  we  are  generous,  hopeful,  and  true. 

In  strange  contradiction  to  all  this  is  the  melan- 
choly, the  despair,  the  pessimism,  that  is  the  knoteey- 
of  all  other  philosophers  and  poets.  And,  as  I  have 
here  introduced  a  new  word,  let  me  define  it,  or  rather, 
let  me  define  my  contradictories.  Optimism  is  the 
theory  that,  "  all  that  is,  is  right,"  that  it  is  a  glorious 
world,  full  of  all  fine  possibilities,  and  that  mankind 
is  ever  moving  onward,  onward,  to  the  goal  of  perfect 
happiness.  Pessimism,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  sad 
and  terrible  doctrine,  that  life  is,  at  best,  a  miserable 
business,  to  be  terminated  as  soon  as  possible  by 
annihilation  ;  that  all  this  thing  called  progress  is 
really  retrogression,  and  that  the  sooner  it  is  all  over 
the  better.  Of  course,  this  dismal  teaching  was  known 
to  the  philosophers  of  old  ;  but  in  our  century,  it  has 
permeated  all  literature,  the  poem,  the  novel,  the 
historical  work,  the  treatise  on  philosophy  ;  and  its 
chief  apostles  were  Schofenhauer  and  Hartmann,  in 
Germany  ;  and  a  poet,  named  Leopardi,  in  Italy. 
One,  however,  could  be  disposed  to  forgive  and  forget 
these  idle  dreamers,  but  the  evil  theory  has  infiltrated 
down  into  the  lives  and  souls  of  men,  and  made  miser- 
able very  beautiful  and  lofty  spirits,  whose  words  and 
deeds  have  been,  instead  of  a  gospel  of  humanity,  a 
sad  legacy  of  the  untruthfulness  of  despair.  It  runs 
like  a  black  warp  through  all  Carlyle's  philosophy. 
"  England  consists,"  he  says,  "  of  thirty  million  people 
— mostly  fools."  And  such  expressions  as  everlasting 
falsities  and  negations,  want  of  verity  in  public  men, 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  39 

wind  bags,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  intolerable  coarseness 
of  a  poor,  diseased  mind,  which  the  world  will  have 
us  believe  was  a  philosophic  one,  forces  itself  on  you 
at  everv  page,  and  makes  you  believe  at  last  that  if 
ever  there  was  a  sham  philosopher  it  was  Carlyle  ; 
and  if  ever  there  was  cant  and  humbug  it  is  in  the 
twenty  odd  volumes  which  a  misapplied  industry  has 
left  the  world.  You  will  find  the  same  in  all  his 
successors — in  Clifford,  Spencer,  Martineau.  They 
all  set  out  with  the  original  faith — that  science  means 
progress,  and  that  the  whole  race  is  moving  onward 
and  upward  to  perfection.  Then  the  disillusion  comes 
with  experience  :  and  when  the  zeal  and  heat  of  youth 
is  over,  it  gives  place  to  the  blackness  of  despair. 

I  think  I  could  forgive  this  in  the  philosophers. 
But  how  can  you  pardon  it  in  the  poets — the  world's 
singers  and  prophets  ?  What  a  frightful  deordination 
it  is,  that  they,  whose  music  should  lift  up  the  weary 
heart  of  humanity,  sing  but  to  depress  it,  and  bring 
into  the  lives  of  men  not  the  songs  of  gladness  and 
hope,  but  the  threnodies  of  anguish  and  despair.  And 
despair,  despair,  is  the  dominant  note  in  all  the  grand 
organ-music  of  the  nineteenth  century.  As  I  have 
said  of  the  philosophers,  so  do  I  say  of  the  poets.  No 
matter  what  songs  of  gladness  burst  from  their  lips 
in  the  morning  of  their  lives,  it  soon  dies  away  into 
one  melancholy  monotone  of  sadness  and  regret. 
You  might  forgive  Tennyson  that  lovely  lyric  : — 

"  Break,  break,  break 
On  thy  cold  grey  stones,  O  Sea, 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 
Will  never  come  back  to  me." 


40  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

But  how  can  you  forgive  him  for  these  : — 

"  There  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt, 
Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds." 

Or  this  :— 

"  Sooner  or  later  I  too  may  take  the  print 
Of  the  golden  age — why  not  ?   I  have  neither  hope 

nor  trust ; 
May  make  my  heart  as  a  mill-stone,  set  my  face  as 

a  flint ; 
Cheat  and  be  cheated,  and  die  ;   who  knows  ?    we 

are  ashes  and  dust." 

And  if  you  protest  and  say  :  He  rose  above  all  that, 
even  in  that  poem  from  which  you  have  quoted 
("  Maud "),  and  wound  up  his  awful  phillipics 
against  society  by  declaring  : 

"It  is  better  to  fight  for  the  good  than  rail  at  the 

ill; 

I  have  felt  with  my  native  land.      I  am  one  with 

my  kind  ; 
I   embrace   the   purpose   of  God,   and   the   doom 

assigned." 

Yet  he.  retracted  again  in  his  extreme  old  age,  and 
passed  his  final  sentence  of  eternal  reprobation 
against  humanity  in  the  very  last  extended  poem 
which  he  wrote. 

The  same  is  true  in  even  a  more  intense  sense  of 
a  still  more  delicate  and  refined  nature — Matthew 
Arnold.  Many  more  modern  critics  will  place  his 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  41 

name  even  higher  than  that  of  Tennyson  ;  and  it  is 
more  true  of  his  poetry  than  of  Tennyson's  that  one 
long  wail  of  sadness  runs  through  it  all.  In  that  well- 
known  poem  Dover  Beach,  he,  too,  makes  the  eternal 
sea  re-echo  his  own  despair  : — 

"  The  sea  of  faith 

Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  and  round  earth's  shore 
Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furled. 
But  now  I  only  hear 
Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar, 
Retreating  to  the  breath 

Of  the  night- wind,  down  the  vast  edges  drear 
And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 

"  Let  us  be  true 

To  one  another  !    for  the  world,  which  seems 
To  He  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams 
So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 
Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light, 
Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain  ; 
And  we  are  here,  as  on  a  darkling  plain 
Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  fight 
Where  ignorant  arms  clash  by  night." 

And  so  on,  through  pages  of  "  most  musical,  most 
melancholy  verse." 

Of  course  I  have  not  quoted  Byron,  who  was  a 
professed  pessimist ;  nor  Swinburne,  who  tries  to 
infuse  into  his  poems  a  Greek  lightness  and  joy,  and 
would  have  succeeded  but  that  the  curse  of  Paganism 
is  on  all  he  wrote,  and  his  pages  are  floating  into  the 
waters  of  Lethe.  Nor  do  I  quote  John  Ruskin,  who. 


42  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

as  you  know,  thinks  we  are  all  rushing,  on  the  wings 
of  modern  science,  to  certain  damnation.  Neither 
shall  I  mention  any  of  our  modern  novelists,  but  to 
say,  that  if  any  lingering  doubt  remained  in  the  minds 
of  men,  that  our  literature  is  also  in  a  state  of  de- 
cadence, I  need  only  quote  Trilby  and  the  far  worse 
abominations  that  pour  forth  from  men  and,  alas  ! 
women-novelists,  until  one  is  inclined  to  believe  that 
this  awful  flood  of  prurient  literature  will  sweep  away 
every  old  and  venerated  landmark  of  decency  and 
propriety.  But  as  I  half  share  Ruskin's  detestation 
of  the  ravages  on  the  face  of  Nature  made  by  modern 
science,  here  is  a  rather  sharp  echo  and  confirmation 
of  his  worst  predictions. 

All  the  valleys  of  the  Meuse  and  Moselle  are  sullied 
with  factory  smoke  and  blasting  powder. 

The  Bay  of  Amalfi  and  the  shore  of  Posilippo  are 
defiled  by  cannon  foundries. 

All  the  Ardennes  are  scorched  and  soiled,  and 
sickened  with  stench  of  smoke  and  suffocating  slag. 

The  Peak  country  and  the  Derwent  valley  are  being 
scarred  and  charred  for  railway  lines,  mines,  and 
factories. 

What  has  been  done  to  Venice  is  such  an  outrage 
that  it  might  wake  Tiziano  from  under  his  weight  of 
marble  in  the  Frari  Church,  and  call  the  Veronese 
back  from  his  grave. 

The  finest  torrent  in  Scotland  is  about  to  be  diverted 
from  its  course  and  used  for  aluminium  works. 

The  fumes  of  these  aluminium  works  will,  when 
they  are  in  full  blast,  emit  hydrofluoric  acid  gas  which 
will  destroy  all  the  vegetation  on  Loch  Ness  for  miles. 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  43 

The  lakes  of  Maggiore,  of  Como,  and  Garda,  are 
all  being  defiled  by  factories  and  steam-engines. 
Thirlmere  and  Loch  Katrine  have  been  violated, 
and  all  the  other  English  and  Scotch  lakes  will  be 
similarly  ravaged.  Fucina  has  been  dried  up  as  a 
speculation,  and  Thrasymene  is  threatened.  The 
Rhone  is  dammed  up,  and  tapped,  and  tortured, 
until  all  its  rich  alluvial  deposits  are  lost  to  the  soil 
of  Provence. 

So  says  "  Ouida  "  in  the  Nineteenth  Century  for 
January,  1896.  And  so  all  the  beauty  and  grandeur 
of  the  old  world  is  blighted  and  poisoned  by  the  in- 
satiable lust  of  men  and  peoples  for  gold.  It  is  a 
dismal  prospect ;  and  some  will  think  that  amongst 
the  few  consolations  we  have  left  us  in  Ireland,  we 
may  number  the  probability  that  our  blue  skies  will 
never  be  blackened  by  belching  chimneys ;  nor  our 
fair  vales  seamed  and  scarred  as  are  the  sweetest  spots 
that  the  Great  Artist,  God,  framed  and  beautified  for 
the  delight  of  the  children  of  men. 

And  so  the  litany  of  despair  goes  on.  In  science, 
in  literature,  in  the  relations  of  great  powers  towards 
each  other,  in  the  impending  and  inevitable  cataclysm 
that  will  rend  Europe  from  the  Ural  mountains  to 
the  Atlantic  seaboard,  in  the  total  absence  of  honour 
and  sincerity  amongst  nations  as  amongst  individuals, 
in  the  new  ideas  that  are  being  advanced  about  social, 
parental,  and  marital  relations,  in  the  lust  of  the  rich 
for  more  wealth — for  wealth  is  insatiable — in  the 
subterranean  thunders  that  herald  a  terrible  revolution 
amongst  the  working  classes — above  all,  in  the  ever- 
growing indifference  to  religion  in  Protestant  lands, 


44  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

and  the  substitution  of  some  new  codes  of  ethics  for 
the  eternal  gospel  of  Christ ;  in  all  these  things  the 
prophets  of  despair — and  they  are  legion — forecast 
a  future  pregnant  with  possibilities  that  may  not  be 
imagined,  and  full  of  doubt  and  gloom  that  should 
make  sick  at  heart  anyone  who  thought  well  of  his 
race,  or  yet  entertained  a  lingering  regard  for  a 
humanity  that  appears  to  be  bent  on  destruction. 
Where  now  is  little  Pippa  :— 

God's  in  his  heaven, 

All's  right  with  the  world? 

Where  is  the  great  optimist  poet  who  sings  :— 

"  Grow  old  along  with  me  ! 
The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made, 
Our  times  are  in  His  hand 
Who  saith  :    '  A  whole  I  planned, 
Youth  shows  but  half ;    trust  God, 
See  all,  nor  be  afraid  !  ' 

You  will  ask,  however,  very  naturally  here,  where 
is  the  point  for  discussion  :  what  is  your  thesis, 
which  we  are  to  support  or  contradict  ?  It  is  simple, 
apparently,  a  very  easy  question  for  solution  ;  yet  I 
venture  to  say  that  you  never  discussed  a  question 
in  this  hall  which  is  so  many  sided,  or  which  leaves 
the  decision  so  uncertain.  The  thesis  is  : — 

The  optimistic,  the  hopeful  view  of  the  world  and 
humanity,  is  the  view  that  commends  itself  to  us,  as 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  45 

fraught  with  the  larger  and  higher  possibilities  for 
our  race. 

The  contradictory  thesis  is  : — 

The  pessimists  are  the  thinkers  that  really — and  in 
very  deed,  by  their  criticism,  their  dissatisfaction,  their 
sublime  restlessness — are  pushing  on  the  race  towards 
the  very  perfection  in  which  they  do  not  believe. 


46  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 


OPTIMISM    IN    DAILY    LIFE 

But  before  you  argue  the  question  it  may  well  be 
asked  what  practical  bearing  has  such  a  discussion 
on  daily  life,  or  the  real  progress  of  the  race.  It 
would  be  unkind  in  us,  who  owe  so  much  to  our  poets 
and  philosophers,  to  ask  what  influence  do  they  exer- 
cise on  the  first  movements  and  the  generic  ideas, 
which  are  the  well-springs  of  all  human  actions. 
There  are  thinkers  who  trace  every  revolution,  pro- 
gressive or  reactionary,  to  our  sages  of  the  attic  and 
the  closet,  on  the  theory  :  Give  me  the  making  of  a 
nation's  ballads,  and  I  will  leave  you  the  making  of 
a  nation's  laws.  But,  apart  from  all  that,  does  not 
this  vital  question  enter  into  our  daily  life,  colouring 
all  our  ideas,  and  giving  a  bias  towards  all  our  emo- 
tions and  actions.  You  will  ask  :  But  we  never  have 
met  your  optimists  and  pessimists  in  daily  life.  Have 
you  not  ?  Let  me  come  down  from  the  Olympians 
for  a  moment,  and  challenge  the  man  in  the  street. 

When  you  are  down  below  zero  in  spirits,  unable 
to  meet  that  little  bill  at  the  bank,  with  your  child 
sick  at  home  ;  when  you  walk  under  dripping  Decem- 
ber skies,  your  hands  stuck  deep  in  your  pockets — a 
picture  of  misery  and  despair,  do  you  know  the  man 
that  comes  up  with  a  smile,  slaps  you  on  the  back  till 
you  gasp  for  breath,  shouts  at  you  to  cheer  up — that 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  47 

the  banker  will  be  considerate,  that  your  child's  sick- 
ness is  a  trifle,  that  the  sun  is  shining  somewhere 
away  behind  those  leaden  clouds,  etc.,  etc.  ?  Well, 
that's  an  optimist. 

Do  you  know  the  man  who  tells  you,  just  as  you 
are  starting  on  that  picnic  in  the  middle  of  June, 
with  high  hopes  and  presages  of  the  good  time  you 
are  going  to  have,  that  it  will  rain  cats  and  dogs  before 
twelve  o'clock,  that  you  will  eat  your  muddy  sand- 
wiches and  watery  pies  under  dripping  umbrellas  ; 
and  that  you  need  take  no  water  to  dilute  Jameson, 
He  even  will  supply  it  by  the  gallon  !  There's  your 
social  pessimist. 

Do  you  know  the  man  who  buttonholes  you  on  the 
street,  when  you  are  rushing  for  a  train,  asks  you  how 
many  miles  to  Sirius,  and  would  trouble  you  to  cal- 
culate how  long  an  express  train  (just  coming  in  to 
your  station)  at  45  miles  an  hour,  would  take  to  touch 
the  nearest  fixed  star.  Do  you  recognise  the  same 
idiot  who  asks  you  how  many  microbes  there  are  in 
a  spoonful  of  milk,  and  how  many  will  there  be  if 
you  leave  it  standing  for  twenty-four  hours  in  a  tem- 
perature of  77  Fahrenheit  ?  Do  you  remember  your 
delight,  when  he  informed  you  that  you  have 
24,176,348  microbes  waltzing  around  your  mouth, 
and  that  is  only  the  advance  guard,  lying  in  ambush 
for  the  countless  legions  that  you  swallow  every  time 
you  sit  down  to  a  meal,  for  that  innocent  spoonful  of 
milk  contains  10,548,000  microbes,  and  in  twenty-four 
hours,  if  you  have  the  courage  to  swallow  it,  you  will 
add  to  the  population  of  your  interior  17,402,000,000 
of  the  same  fertile  and  interesting  subjects  ?  Is  it 


48  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

the  same  individual  who  informs  you  that  early  in 
the  20th  century  you  can  carry  all  your  meals  in  your 
waistcoat  pocket — breakfast,  luncheon,  dinner,  and 
supper  ;  and  that  when  you  wish  to  breakfast,  you 
just  take  out  a  capsule,  as  you  now  take  a  pinch  of 
snuff,  and,  presto,  here  is  the  concentrated  essence 
of  a  breakfast,  two  rashers  of  bacon,  two  poached  eggs, 
two  cups  of  tea,  and  several  cuts  of  toast  ?  And  when 
you  invite  your  friend  to  dine — no  more  courses,  no 
more  waiters,  no  more  napkins,  nor  knives  and  forks, 
nor  flowers,  nor  glass,  nor  silver  ;  no  toasts,  no  after- 
dinner  speeches  !  You  touch  an  electric  button,  and 
lo  !  you  have  a  delicious  heat,  and  a  soft  lambent 
light  playing  around  the  room  ;  you  take  out  your 
silver  box,  tap  it,  ask  your  friend  to  take  a  pill,  and — 
he  has  done  in  a  moment  and  in  a  simple  way  all  that 
we  do  through  the  long  hours  and  exquisite  tortures 
of  an  eleven  course  dinner  a  la  Russe.  He  expects 
you  to  be  enthusiastic.  But  if  you  are  still  dull  and 
uncomprehensive,  he  will  excite  your  imagination  by 
fairy  stories  of  flying  machines,  kinematographs,  tele- 
pathy, earth-inoculation,  ether-electricity,  etc.,  etc. 
Space  annihilated,  time  reduced  to  minutes  by  sur- 
passing volume  and  elasticity.  You  want  to  see  Rome  ? 
Touch  a  button,  here  in  your  study  ;  and  lo  !  you're 
in  Rome,  walking  down  the  Appian  Way,  studying 
statues  in  the  Vatican,  or  treading  the  pavement  of 
St.  Peter's.  You'd  like  to  see  Calcutta  ?  Here  you 
are.  Blazing  sun,  ill-smelling  Hooghly,  black  Hin- 
doos, yellow  Musselmen,  bells  ringing  from  the 
temples,  lamps  floating  on  the  stream.  Let's  see 
Chicago  !  Presto  !  Here's  Chicago — Porkopolis. 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  49 

Tramcars  ringing,  men  and  women  pushing  along 
on  the  side-walks,  the  white  walls  of  the  Exhibition 
mirrored  in  the  black  waters  of  Lake  Michigan,  pigs 
squealing  as  they  pass  into  the  machines,  and  come 
out  hams  and  sausages.  Sausages  put  into  the  other 
end  of  the  machine,  and  out  comes  a  lively  porker  ! 
Madame  Patti  (or  rather  her  great  successor,  for 
Madame  Patti  is  not  immortal — however,  stop  there, 
science  will  make  her  so)  is  singing  in  Manchester 
to-night.  Very  well,  we  shall  hear  her.  You  touch 
a  button  here,  sitting  down  in  your  armchair  :  and 
lo  !  her  wonderful  voice  comes  floating  over  the  wires, 
and  you  sit  enchanted — but  you'd  give  all  the  world 
to  see  her.  Certainly.  The  good  genie  of  science  is 
here.  You  call  up  another  number.  Your  little  study 
and  arm-chair  and  books  and  pictures  float  away  : 
and  ecce  !  here  is  the  vast  theatre,  the  stage  with  its 
footlights,  the  gorgeous  scenery,  the  orchestra,  the 
box-stalls,  the  wonderful  dresses,  the  man  standing 
up  to  go  out  to  see  a  friend,  etc.  Isn't  science  wonder- 
ful ?  My  dear  fellow  !  but  your  train  is  gone,  and 
you  are  tempted  to  be  profane.  Do  you  kno\v  the 
demon  ?  Well,  that's  your  scientific  optimist ! 

But  don't  you  know  that  man  that  damns  science, 
wishes  back  the  good  old  times  when  it  took  four 
days  to  go  to  Dublin,  dilates  on  the  morning  coaches 
a  la  Dickens,  the  early  breakfasts  on  cold  beef  and 
tankards  of  ale,  the  bugle  cheerily  waking  up  the 
sleepy  passengers,  the  glorious  scenery  by  wood  and 
lake  and  river,  the  new  towns  you  come  to,  the  curio- 
sity your  arrival  excites,  the  glorious  dinner  of  veal 
pie,  pigeon  pie,  legs  of  mutton,  sirloin  of  beef,  oceans 

E 


50  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

of  claret,  and  plenty  of  time  to  eat  it  and  digest  it ;  not 
like  your  leather  sandwich  and  your  boiling  coffee, 
and  a  whistling  engine,  and  a  shouting  guard — Ah  ! 
the  good  old  times,  when  science  was  unknown — 
when  men  and  women  were  fine,  healthy,  God-fearing 
beings,  living  on  wholesome  food,  and  not  on  your 
deleterious  Oriental  drugs  of  tea  and  coffee — when 
disease  was  practically  unknown — when  science  had 
not  invented  stethoscopes  and  electric  batteries— 
when  there  was  no  neurosis,  or  neurasthenia,  and  no 
man  knew  he  had  a  liver — when  we  were  clothed  in 
good  old  Irish  frieze,  not  in  Manchester  shoddy— 
when  there  were  no  newspapers,  but  you  could  talk 
for  six  months  about  a  wedding  or  a  christening — 
when,  in  a  word,  the  world  of  each  man  was  a  small 
world,  and  we  were  more  interested  about  our  neigh- 
bours than  about  naked  savages  in  Matabele,  or  what 
is  to  be  done  with  the  "  sick  man  "  in  Constantinople. 
Don't  you  know  him — the  scientific  pessimist  ? 

And  the  educational  optimist — with  his  piles  of 
statistics  about  the  Intermediate  Examinations — 5,340 
boys  and  girls  passing  in  Botany,  Mineralogy,  Mettal- 
urgy,  Trigonometry,  Physiology,  Differential  and 
Integral  Calculus,  Latin,  Greek,  Italian,  German, 
French,  Gaelic,  etc.  Ah  !  my  dear  sir,  what  advan- 
tages young  people  have  now  that  we  never  enjoyed  ! 
And  what  a  glorious  future  lies  before  our  country 
when  these  young  people  grow  to  manhood  and 
womanhood,  and  form  the  commercial  and  profes- 
sional classes — the  backbone  of  the  country  !  Educate! 
educate  !  educate  !  Take  your  stand  amongst  the 
nations  of  the  earth,  and  sweep  away  the  curse  of 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  51 

illiteracy  !  We  are  doing  it.  In  Primary,  Inter- 
mediate, and,  very  soon,  in  University  Education, 
we  will  come  into  line  with  the  best  intellects  of  Eng- 
land, Germany,  and  America  ;  and  then  the  rest  is 
easy.  Ireland's  future  is  assured  ! 

But  here,  suddenly,  as  the  stream  of  optimistic 
eloquence  flows  on,  a  big  block  is  flung  across  it  by 
the  no  less  fervid  but  denunciatory  eloquence  of  the 
pessimist  : — 

Education  !  there's  no  such  thing  in  Ireland  ! 
There  are  not  ten  educated  men  in  Ireland,  from 
Malin  Head  to  Cape  Clear.  Your  systems  of  educa- 
tion are  a  mockery,  a  delusion  and  a  snare.  You  cram 
for  examinations,  as  turkeys  are  crammed  for  Christ- 
mas :  and  your  boys  and  girls  are  consequently 
suffering  from  intellectual  plethora  and  indigestion, 
resulting  in  mental  atrophy  and  paralysis.  Take  any 
of  your  gold-medallists  or  exhibitioners  three  months 
after  examination,  and  he  cannot  translate  a  line  or 
sentence  in  the  very  books  in  which  he  passed  with 
glowing  colours.  And  if  he  goes  up  for  a  bank  exa- 
mination, or  some  minor  office  in  the  Civil  Service, 
he  cannot  pass  in  the  elements  of  grammar,  or  the 
rudiments  of  Geography  or  Arithmetic.  He  will  talk 
of  Homer,  and  believe  that  Troy  was  in  N.  America  ; 
he  will  tell  you  that  Mount  Parnassus  was  in  Ireland, 
and  that  the  Nile  flows  into  St.  George's  Channel ; 
that  Caesar  was  killed  at  Clontarf,  and  that  the  battle 
of  the  Pyramids  was  won  by  Brian  Boru.  In  other 
words,  he  is  a  conceited  ignoramus,  despising  every- 
one, and  despised  by  all.  And  it  only  stands  to 
reason.  You  cannot  cram  a  boy's  head  with  all  this 
learning  to  any  advantage.  Meat  for  man  ;  milk  for 


52  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

babes.  But  you  want  the  babes  to  fatten  on  roast- 
beef.  You  don't  know  that  over-feeding,  as  any 
doctor  will  tell  you,  is  but  another  word  for  starvation 
God  be  with  the  good  old  times,  when  the  hedge- 
schoolmasters  were  as  plentiful  as  blackberries  in 
Ireland,  when  the  scholars  took  their  sods  of  turf 
under  their  arms  for  school  seats  ;  but  every  boy 
knew  his  Virgil  and  Horace  and  Homer  as  well  as 
the  last  ballad  about  some  rebel  that  was  hanged, 
and  every  farmer's  son  could  survey  his  father's  land 
by  merely  looking  at  it — wrhen  the  Kerry  peasants 
talked  to  each  other  in  Latin  ;  and  when  they  came  up 
to  the  Palatines  in  Limerick,  as  harvestmen  in  the 
autumn,  they  could  make  uncomplimentary  re- 
marks and  say  cuss-words  ad  libitum,  before  their 
master's  face,  and  he  couldn't  understand  them,  for 
they  spoke  the  tongue  of  Cicero  and  Livy — the 
language  of  the  educated  world.  These  were  the 
times  when  Irishmen  knew  well  what  they  did  know  ; 
when  every  Irishman  knew  three  languages  perfectly. 
Voster  from  cover  to  cover,  the  six  books  of  Euclid, 
the  science  of  mensuration  ;  how  to  season  a  hurley 
for  the  Sunday  game,  and  how  to  polish  the  pike-head 

for P1     But  we  are  degenerates.     And  what's  the 

purpose  of  it  all.  Look  at  the  way  you  educate  your 
children  in  the  National  Schools.  Listen  !  Here  is 
a  logical  proposition.  Any  system  of  education  is 
a  dismal  failure  that  does  not  supply  the  means 
towards  the  end.  Now,  the  end  of  education  is  to 
fit  pupils  for  the  spheres  they  shall  occupy  in  life. 
But  the  spheres  that  most  pupils  occupy  in  life  are 

1  "The  Muster  in  the  Valley,  beside  the  singing  river,  at  the 
rising  of  the  Moon." 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  53 

either  spheres  of  menial  or  manual  labour.  Therefore, 
the  education  of  your  children  should  be  a  literary 
education  by  accident,  but  a  technical  education  by 
necessity.  Yet  we  adopt  the  opposite  course.  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  technical  education  in  Ireland, 
and  the  literary  education  is  far  beyond  the  necessities, 
mental  or  social,  of  nine-tenths  of  the  children  who 
attend  our  primary  schools.  What,  for  example, 
does  a  poor  girl,  who  has  to  earn  her  bread  as  house- 
maid, want  to  know  about  free-hand  drawing  or  per- 
spective ?  And  what  does  a  factory  hand  want  to 
know  about  the  intricacies  of  the  Tonic-Sol-Fa 
System,  the  science  of  Transposition,  the  Modulator, 
or  the  humming  song  ?  And  what's  the  result  ?  Our 
country  overwhelmed  with  professional  men,  clerks, 
secretaries,  teachers,  etc.  ;  and  the  further  result  a 
complete  dearth  of  business  men  and  skilled  artisans, 
and  the  further  result  of  the  decadence  of  Cork  and 
Dublin  and  all  purely  Irish  cities,  and  the  advance 
by  leaps  and  bounds  of  a  half-Scotch,  half-American 
city,  like  Belfast ! 

There  is  your  educational  pessimist.  Who  does 
not  know  the  political  pessimist  ? 

"  The  country  gone  to  the  dogs — Ireland  once 
more  on  the  dissecting-table — the  spirit  of  faction 
dominant — the  world  laughing  at  us — the  country 
flung  back  fifty  years,  etc.,  etc."  It's  all  well  if  he 
does  not  quote  poetry,  and  tell  us  : — 

"  Thy  treasure  with  taunts  shall  be  taken, 

Thy  valour  with  jibes  be  repaid, 
And  of  millions  who  see  thee,  now  sad  and  forsaken, 

Not  one  shall  step  forth  to  thy  aid. 


54  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

Thou  art  doomed  for  thy  tyrant  to  toil, 

Thou  art  doomed  for  the  proud  to  disdain, 
And  the  blood  of  thy  sons  and  the  wealth  of  thy  soil 

Shall  be  lavished,  and  lavished  in  vain. 
Thou  art  chained  to  the  wheel  of  the  foe, 

By  links  that  the  world  cannot  sever, 
With  thy  tyrant  through  sunshine  and  storm  shalt 
thou  go, 

And  thy  sentence  is  :    Banished  for  ever." 

Who  does  not  know  him,  particularly  in  these  latter 
days  when  hardly  a  rift  appears  in  an  ever  ominous 
and  darkening  sky  ? 

But  is  there  not  a  political  optimist  who  tells  you, 
cheer  up  !  the  darkest  hour  is  just  before  the  dawn. 
We  don't  want  mechanical  unity.  Better  Ireland 
free,  than  Ireland  united.  Ca  ira  \  all  will  come  right 
Wait  till  you  see  the  scattered  battalions  re-forming  on 
the  floor  of  the  House  of  Commons  ;  and  the  reveille 
of  the  new  campaign  sounded,  and  the  fighting-men 
putting  on  their  armour,  and  all  opposing  forces  mar- 
shalled together  for  the  fiercest,  bravest,  angriest 
Session  yet  recorded  in  the  annals  of  the  British 
Parliament — Ay  de  mi  I  says  the  pessimist. 

We  had  one  such  magnificent  optimist  in  Ireland— 
always,  of  course,  excepting  our  own  inimitable 
Thomas  Davis — in  the  awful  gloom  of  '48.  If  ever 
there  was  a  time  when  men's  hearts  were  in  their 
boots,  through  fear  and  trembling  of  the  awful  tri- 
bulation that  lay  upon  the  land,  surely  it  was  then. 
But  one  great  trumpet-voice  echoed  from  end  to  end 
of  Ireland  in  that  awful  gloom  ;  and  it  was  the  voice 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  55 

of  a  woman — a  great  optimist,  full  of  hope  and 
courage — Speranza.  You  remember  that  "  Year  of 
Revolutions  "  ! 

I  have  now  drawn  portraits  of  these  two  classes, 
into  which,  in  the  aggregate,  humanity  may  be  divided. 
And  now  comes  the  important,  and  by  no  means  easy 
question  :  which  class  best  promotes  the  interests  of 
humanity  ?  Naturally,  one's  sympathies  go  out,  at 
once,  to  the  optimists  who  sing,  like  Pippa  : — 

Cod's  in  his  heaven, 
All's  right  with  the  world. 

We  feel  a  powerful  attraction  towards  those  bright, 
sunny  souls,  who  hold  their  heads  aloft,  with  an 
eternal  sursum  corda  on  their  lips.  We  feel  a  no 
less  powerful  repulsion  against  these  sallow,  cada- 
verous, dyspeptic,  despondent  cynics,  who  are  for 
ever  railing  against  the  world,  and  clamouring  for 
the  better  things  in  which  they  have  no  hope.  But 
when  we  come  down  to  reasoning,  perhaps  the  case 
differs.  For,  after  all,  shorn  of  his  benevolence,  what 
is  your  optimist  but  the  easy,  self-satisfied  lover  of 
good  things,  who  hates  to  have  his  rest  disturbed  and 
who  has  ever  on  his  lips  the  watchwords  of  reaction 
and  retrogression  :  "  Can't  you  let  well  alone  ?  " 
"  Aren't  we  just  as  well  where  we  are  ?  "  "  What 
was  good  enough  for  our  fathers,  is  it  not  quite  good 
enough  for  us  ?  "  etc.,  etc.  And  is  there  not  some- 
thing inspiring  even  in  the  despairful,  yet  lofty  dis- 
satisfaction which  protests  :  "  Certainly  not  !  Every- 
thing is  not  right  in  your  stagnancy  and  self-posses- 


56  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

sion.  You  must  rise  up,  and  onwards.  En  avant  ! 
Everything  is  wrong,  and  we  shall  try  to  right  it, 
though  we  should  fail.  Better  failure  a  thousand  times 
than  to  see  without  protest  the  lies  that  are  daily 
before  us,  in  men's  lips  and  in  their  lives.  Better 
one  sharp  struggle,  though  it  end  in  failure,  than  the 
ignoble  faith  of  those  who  stand  up  with  folded  arms, 
and  witness  the  eternal  tragedy  that  is  going  on 
around  them." 

"  Troublesome  fellows,  dangerous  fellows,  revolu- 
tionaries," says  the  optimist,  "  These  fellows  will 
upset  all  decent  society,  ruin  our  digestions,  bring 
down  our  stocks  and  snares,  and  scatter  to  the  wind 
all  our  dreams  of  present  and  possible  happiness." 

"  No  matter,"  says  the  pessimist,  "  anything  is 
better  than  to  live  a  lie.  Come,  you  sleek  hypocrites, 
and  look  at  the  world.  Here,  in  the  midst  of  your 
civilisation,  human  beings  are  rotting  in  misery  and 
hunger,  whilst  their  souls  are  in  the  grasp  of  the  Evil 
One.  Can  you  sit  down  to  your  comfortable  dinner, 
and  know  that  thousands  of  your  fellow-beings  are 
starving  ?  In  want  and  ignorance,  in  sin  and  sorrow, 
half  mankind  live  out  their  weary  lives,  and  you  say 
this  is  the  best  possible  world  for  them  and  you." 

"  Yes  !  but  you  say  you  cannot  correct  it  ?  "  says 
the  optimist.  "  Where's  the  use  in  beating  the  air  ?  " 

"  Where  indeed  ?  "  And  so  the  eternal  discussion 
goes  on — the  one  side  maintaining  that  it  is  best  to 
let  well  alone,  and  enjoy  life  as  best  you  can  ;  the 
other,  that  the  progress  of  the  race  is  due  to  the  sub- 
lime dissatisfaction,  the  eternal  restlessness,  the 
issuing  in  healthy  or  unhealthy  revolution.  For  "  out 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  57 

of  the  black  smoke  cometh  flame,"  say  they  ;  and 
out  of  the  brooding  thunder-cloud  the  lightning  that 
breaks  the  burden  of  the  storm  ;  and  from  the  hot 
hearts  of  angry  men  the  thoughts  that  shaped  them- 
selves into  burning  words.  And  from  the  words  came 
deeds,  fraught  with  the  germs  of  all  the  great  things, 
and  all  the  noble  things,  and  all  the  inspirement, 
that  drew  man  from  the  beast  and  pushed  him  ever 
higher  and  higher,  until  now  he  can  see  in  the  future 
that  looms  before  him 

"  What  ?  "  says  the  optimist. 

And  he  must  acknowledge  with  bent  head  and 
faltering  tongue  that  all  his  visions  and  dreams,  all 
the  apocalyptic  splendours  of  his  hopes  and  fancy 
are  blotted  out,  like  a  shower  of  fireworks  on  a  black, 
frowning  sky,  on  which  is  written  in  lurid  light  one 
word — despair  ! 

Meanwhile  Pippa,  tired  out,  lies  down  to  rest — 

"  God  bless  me  !    I  can  pray  no  more  to-night. 
No  doubt,  some  way  or  other,  hymns  say  right 

All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God — 
With  God,  whose  puppets,  best  or  worst, 
Are  we  ;    there  is  no  last,  nor  first." 


AN  UNPUBLISHED  PREFACE 

in 

In  the  Irish  Ecclesiastical  Record  for  September, 
1 88 1,  an  article,  entitled  Religious  Instruction  in  Inter- 
mediate Schools,  appeared.  It  professed  to  be  a 
warning  to  those  immediately  concerned,  that  the 
system  of  education  just  then  introduced,  if  not 
sdirectly  levelled  at  the  subversion  of  the  religiou 
beliefs  of  the  vast  masses  of  Irish  students,  would  at 
least  have  the  tendency  to  throw  into  the  background 
those  studies  which  are  presumed  to  be  of  overwhelm- 
ing importance  in  the  education  of  Catholic  youth. 
1  do  not  know  whether — in  the  fierce  rivalry  for 
honours  and  emoluments  which  then  originated,  and 
which  has  grown  more  intense  as  the  years  sped  by — 
that  article  was  even  glanced  at  by  the  superiors  of 
our  colleges  and  academies  ;  but  it  was  deemed  of 
sufficient  importance  by  the  London  Tablet  to  be 
transferred,  almost  in  extenso,  to  its  columns,  and  it 
probably  led  to  the  establishment  of  a  system  of 
diocesan  inspection  in  one  or  two  places  in  Ireland. 
The  experience  of  fifteen  years  has  not  lessened  the 
apprehensions  of  the  writer  ;  and  the  yearly  reports, 
submitted  by  the  managers  of  schools  to  the  public, 
have  rather  tended  to  confirm  them.  These  reports 
read  more  like  the  returns  of  the  headmaster  of  some 
Parisian  Lycee  to  the  Minister  of  Public  Instruction 

68 


THE  LITERARY  LIFE  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  59 

than  the  account  rendered  by  Catholic  teachers  to 
their  Prelates  of  the  scrupulous  care  of  the  students' 
highest  interests,  and  the  conscientious  discharge  of 
the  lofty  and  onerous  stewardship  they  have  under- 
taken. The  answer,  of  course,  is  :  This  is  what  the 
public  require,  and  this  is  what  we  must  give.  Perhaps 
so.  But  there  is  no  loftier  ambition  than  an  ephemeral 
success  in  secular  teaching  ;  or  rather,  is  there  not 
some  minimum  of  Christian  teaching  that  might  be 
expected,  and  that  ought  to  be  enforced  ?  Unkind 
people  are  censorious  enough  to  assert  that,  in  our 
efforts  to  prove  our  liberalism  in  education,  we  may 
run  the  risk  of  eliminating  Christianity  from  it 
altogether.  And  still  more  uncharitable  critics  have 
gone  the  length  of  insinuating  that  amongst  the  many 
causes  that  retard  the  conversion  of  England  may  be 
mentioned  the  ignorance  of  dogmatic  truth,  and  the 
indifference  to  Catholic  interests,  that  obtain  amongst 
a  good  many  of  our  people  who  are  thrown  into  direct 
contact  with  earnest  and  inquiring  minds. 

That  minimum  I  take  to  be  : — 

(i) — A  dogmatic  training  on  all  those  points  of 
Catholic  doctrine  and  discipline  which  are  contro- 
verted by  those  outside  the  Church. 

(2) — A  knowledge  of  at  least  all  the  salient  events 
in  the  Church's  history  which  are  of  importance,  or 
even  interest,  to  the  students. 

(3) — A  clear  understanding  of  all  the  rites  and 
ceremonies  of  the  Church  ;  their  meaning,  their  sug- 
gestiveness,  and  the  mysticism  that  underlies  them. 

(4) — An  acquaintance  with  the  Church's  hymnal 
and  sacred  music. 


60  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

(5) — And  most  important,  that  impression  on  the 
emotional  nature  of  boys,  through  ceremonies,  music, 
prayer,  lectures,  etc.,  that  shall  last  through  life,  when 
perhaps  principles  are  in  danger  of  being  forgotten. 

Under  this  conviction,  therefore,  I  supposed  that 
the  time  had  come  when  a  similar  warning  might 
again  be  directed  to  those  who  were  responsible  for 
the  education  of  our  Catholic  youth.  But,  as  an 
ephemeral  essay  in  a  Review  is  merely  glanced  at, 
and  leaves  but  a  light  impression,  I  determined  to 
use  as  a  vehicle  for  this  idea  that  most  potent  of  all 
modern  agencies  for  the  diffusion  of  ideas,  namely, 
the  story — the  novel.  And  to  avoid  hurting  the 
sensibilities  of  men,  whose  responsibilities  make  them 
keenly  alive  to  criticism,  I  threw  the  story  back  a 
quarter  of  a  century,  localised  it  in  a  college  that  has 
long  since  ceased  to  exist,  and  peopled  it  with  charac- 
ters, that,  under  no  possible  circumstances,  could  be 
identified  with  any  existing  persons.  I  thought  I  had 
taken  the  most  scrupulous  care  to  exclude  the  possi- 
bility of  the  identification  of  Mayfield  with  any 
existing  institution.  In  discipline  and  method  of 
studies,  in  its  tutorial  system,  in  every  single  detail, 
that  College  is  no  more  like  any  existing  college  or 
school  in  Ireland  than  it  is  like  Dotheboy's  Hall  on 
the  one  hand,  or  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  on  the  other. 
Yet,  with  singular  perversity,  Mayfield  was  found  to 
have  its  prototype  in  half  a  dozen  Irish  colleges,  and 
some  of  my  dramatis  persons  were  supposed  to  be 
easily  recognised  in  certain  well-known  professors. 
On  the  other  hand,  although  admitted  to  be  real  and 
intense  in  its  presentment  of  the  distinguishing  fea- 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  61 

tures  of  May  field,  as  it  existed,  by  the  professors  and 
students  of  that  institution  who  still  survive,  it  was 
called  visionary  and  unreal,  and  "  too  extravagant 
even  for  fiction,"  by  those  who  had  never  heard  its 
name  ;  and,  worst  of  all,  with  that  peculiar  inaccu- 
racy and  habit  of  generalising  from  very  minute  par- 
ticulars, which  is  not  the  worst  effect  of  that  system  of 
education  under  which  we  are  just  now  labouring, 
one  of  my  characters  was  made  an  infidel,  another  a 
profligate,  and  the  grave  imputation  was  extended, 
by  lively  and  not  too  scrupulous  imaginations,  to  the 
entire  body  of  Irish  students.  Thus  a  book  which 
was  intended  to  be,  and  has  been,  a  stimulus  to 
Catholic  education,  was  described  as  being,  to  use 
the  dishonest  criticism  of  the  Month,  "  an  attack  on 
Catholic  institutions."  And  thus  a  secret  and  in- 
sidious attempt  was  made  to  wreck  the  sale  of  the 
book,  whilst  not  one  of  its  secret  critics  had  the  man- 
liness to  come  forward  and  contravene  what  was 
palpably  the  main,  and,  indeed,  the  only  thesis 
advanced.  If  I  could  be  assured  that  I  was  wrong 
in  my  surmises,  and  that  Catholic  education  in  the 
Primary  and  Intermediate  Schools  of  Ireland  was  all 
that  could  be  desired,  I  should  gladly  make  every 
amende  in  my  power.  But  the  pile  of  letters  that 
have  poured  in  on  me  from  all  sides  forbid  the 
assumption  that  I  was  altogether  wrong. 

With  singular  unanimity  the  Catholic  press  of 
Ireland  and  America  interpreted  the  book  as  a  plea 
for  a  more  thorough  system  of  Catholic  education 
in  our  Colleges  ;  and  all  took  it  for  granted  that  the 
plea  was  a  timely  one.  Some  faint  demurrers  were 


62  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

whispered  by  one  or  two  professors  who,  daily  sur- 
rounded by  a  corona  of  guileless  students,  may  be 
supposed  to  be  happily  unconscious  of  the  storm 
and  stress  of  human  passion  that  sweep  up  to  the 
very  walls  of  their  citadels.  But  the  men  of  the 
world — missionary  priests,  journalists,  professional 
men,  whose  fingers  are  on  the  pulses  of  humanity, 
and  whose  doors  swing  open  every  minute  for  those 
messages  of  sorrow  and  crime  that  are  for  ever  sent 
out  from  the  masses  of  tempted  souls,  had  but  one 
opinion  of  the  book — that  the  circumstances  of  the 
times  demanded  it,  and  that  it  erred  only  in  being 
too  feeble  a  presentment,  or  too  timid  and  irresolute 
a  call. 

But  I  owe  a  great  deal  of  gratitude  to  our  own 
Catholic  journals  for  the  honesty  with  which  they 
interpreted  my  ideas  ;  and  if  there  be  any  gleam  of 
hope  in  an  ever  darkening  and  ominous  sky,  it  will 
be  found  in  the  facility  with  which  great  public  organs 
gauged  the  importance  and  far-reaching  influences  of 
such  a  presentment  of  Catholic  principle  as  I  ventured 
to  put  forward  ;  and  in  the  fidelity  with  which,  in 
the  face  of  much  irritability  and  super-sensitiveness, 
they  admitted  the  correctness  of  my  statements  and 
the  opportuneness  of  the  warning  which,  with  all 
diffidence,  I  ventured  to  utter. 

The  sequel  to  Geoffrey  Austin  :  Student,  which  I 
promised,  1  now  put  forward.  It  is  again  a  history 
of  two  lives,  running  in  parallel  lines — the  one  on 
the  high  mountains  of  faith,  the  other  in  the  darkness 
and  mists  of  the  valleys  of  irreligion,  but  not  unbelief. 
I  have  attempted  to  show  how  exalted  was  the  one, 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  63 

how  pitiful  and  depressed  was  the  other.  The  many 
readers  who  followed  the  career  of  Geoffrey  Austin 
and  Charlie  Travers  up  to  the  "  parting  of  the  ways  " 
will,  I  hope,  with  an  equal  interest,  read  the  sub- 
sequent history  of  their  lives  up  to  the  happy  denoue- 
ment. They  were  both  very  ordinary  types  of  students. 
Amongst  the  many  absurd  things  that  were  said  of 
these  two  lads,  probably  the  climax  was  reached  in 
the  statement  that  I  had  made  Charlie  a  drunkard, 
because  once  he  had  yielded  to  temptation  under 
pressure  of  great  despondency  ;  and  that  I  had  made 
Geoffrey  an  infidel  because  he  neglected  his  prayers 
and  became  absorbed  in  the  classics.  And  if,  in  this 
volume,  I  have  cast  a  faint  halo  of  the  supernatural 
around  Charlie's  career,  let  me  anticipate  all  criticism 
by  saying  that  I  am  one  of  those  who  believe  that  a 
spiritual  world  is  all  around  us,  that  we  are  for  ever 
touching  the  fringe  of  mysteries  that  elude  us  ;  and 
that  perhaps  it  needs  only  a  little  less  materialism  in 
our  concepts  and  desires  to  enable  us  to  hear  the 
rustling  of  angels'  wings  over  our  heads,  or  touch  the 
garments  of  the  dead  beloved  ones  as  they  sweep  by. 
It  is  quite  probable  that  the  usual  objection  that 
all  this  is  ideal,  visionary,  and  unreal,  may  be  launched 
against  this  book  as  against  its  prelude.  Yet  the 
critics  of  Geoffrey  Austin  will  perhaps  be  more  careful 
in  the  use  of  such  adjectives  after  what  has  been  stated 
in  this  preface,  and  their  own  riper  experience.  But 
is  it  not  true  to  say  that  a  writer  of  fiction  must  aim 
at  being  not  only  a  dramatist,  but  a  creator  ;  not  a 
mere  delineator  of  types,  but  an  architect  and  framer 
of  personalities,  which  may  not  exist  just  now  ;  but 


64  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

which,  it  would  be  rash  to  say,  are  beyond  the  domain 
of  possibility  ?  I  think  this  is  the  larger  vocation  of 
the  artist.  The  greatness  of  any  work  depends  on 
the  idea,  as  well  as  upon  its  execution.  The  great 
dreamers  of  the  Italian  school  are  somewhat  beyond 
the  portrait  painters  of  England  and  Spain.  And  the 
fame  of  the  great  English  academicians  of  to-day 
will  not  depend  on  their  portraits,  though  perhaps 
their  existence  did,  but  on  the  creations  of  their 
fancy,  and  the  higher  sublimations  of  their  art.  In 
the  same  way,  the  creator  of  ideals  in  fiction  is  more 
than  a  mere  delineator  of  existing  types  ;  and  when 
it  is  said  that  "  such  a  character  is  not  true  to  Nature," 
it  is  only  meant  that  the  particular  taste  or  imagination 
of  the  speaker  does  not  reach  so  far.  Whether  this 
creation  of  new  types  is  altogether  for  the  benefit  of 
the  reading  public  may,  of  course,  be  controverted. 
But  no  one  will  deny  that  society  just  now  is  based 
on  rather  low  levels  ;  and  that  it  is  almost  a  public 
benefaction  to  lift  it,  through  new  creations,  ever  so 
little.  We  have  had  quite  enough  of  Pagan  realism 
in  the  squalid  and  nauseous  literature  of  the  last  few 
years.  Let  us  try  the  effect  of  Christian  idealism  ; 
and  let  us  try  the  experiment  at  home.  The  literary 
instinct  has  died  out  in  Ireland  since  '48.  Our  colleges 
and  universities,  with  one  or  two  notable  exceptions, 
are  dumb.  The  art  of  conversation  is  as  dead  as  the 
art  of  embalming.  And  a  certain  unspeakable  vulgar- 
ism has  taken  the  place  of  all  the  grace  and  courtesy, 
all  the  dignity  and  elegance  of  the  last  century.  Every- 
one admits  all  this,  admits  it  to  be  deplorable ; 
deplorable  above  all  in  its  consequences,  and  in  its 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  65 

worst  consequence — the  loss  of  dignity  and  self- 
respect  that  is  so  observable.  If  I  have  painted  other 
things,  and  placed  a  modest  picture  of  a  Christian 
Hypatia  in  Dublin,  and  gathered  around  her  feet 
some  young  emotional  students,  I  do  not  pretend 
that  every  drawing-room  in  Dublin  is  a  theatre  for 
the  display  of  high  erudition,  or  an  Academia  of 
more  than  Grecian  culture.  So,  too,  if  Charlie 
Travers  is  an  Irish  Ozanam  (the  idea  that  excites  so 
much  the  contemptuous  hilarity  of  the  Month),  I  do 
not  pretend  that  you  will  find  his  counterpart  in 
every  professional  man  in  Dublin.  I  only  desire  that 
these  things  should  be  so.  And  I  beg  leave  to  say 
that  such  creations  are  by  no  means  impossibilities, 
and  that  such  work  as  his  lies  at  our  own  doors. 
Perhaps  this  modest  volume  may  be  the  means, 
under  Divine  Providence,  of  developing  such  desirable 
types  of  Irish  character.  That  the  material  is  there, 
no  one  can  for  a  moment  doubt. 

Let  me  say,  however,  that  no  one  can  be  more 
keenly  aware  than  I  that  the  execution  of  this  work 
falls  very  far  short  of  the  ideal.  Here  again  I  am  only 
repeating  the  experience  of  every  one  that  has  painted 
or  written,  chisseled  or  sung.  The  Divine  idea  of 
the  worker  never  yet  came  forth  from  the  marble  or 
the  canvas.  This  very  imperfection  has  been  taken 
by  many  as  a  proof  of  our  immortality.  In  eternity 
only  shall  we  realise  our  ideals.  But  from  a  literary 
standpoint  I  have  had  the  ambition  (i)  of  writing  an 
Irish  story  without  peasants  or  policemen,  believing 
that  the  best  material  for  Irish  fiction — in  the  little 
dramas  of  our  cities  and  towns — lies  still  untouched. 
F 


66  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

(2)  I  have  tried  to  write  an  interesting  tale  without 
that  mawkish  and  ridiculous  sentimentality  which  is 
so  revolting  to  Catholic  instincts.  (3)  I  have  tried  to 
write  a  Catholic  tale  that  may  escape  the  fate  of  most 
Catholic  books  of  our  generation.  For,  assuredly, 
our  Catholic  literature  is  smitten  with  the  curse  of 
barrenness.  We  have  produced  no  great  poem  since 
the  Divina  Commeddia  was  written  ;  our  philosophy 
lies  mouldering  under  pig-skin  covers  and  brass 
clasps.  But  two  or  three  writers  in  our  century — 
such  as  Lacordaire  and  Pere  Gratry  in  France,  and 
Father  Faber  in  England — have  popularised  Catholic 
theology.  In  our  own  language,  the  Blessed  Sacrament 
of  the  latter  is  the  high-water  mark  of  Catholic  achieve- 
ment— the  culmination  of  Catholic  poetry,  philosophy, 
and  theology.  Our  other  writers  have  not  touched 
the  masses.  They  have  written  for  the  select  few, 
and  the  select  few,  under  an  affectation  of  contempt, 
but  ill  conceal  the  dread  they  have  of  being  brought 
face  to  face  with  truth.  But,  assuredly,  for  the  most 
part,  error — and  such  error — has  been  endowed  with 
a  fatal  fascination,  with  which  truth,  Divine  truth, 
has  never  been  clothed,  even  by  its  most  faithful 
and  loving  followers.  Why  we  cannot  unlock  the 
infinite  treasures  of  Catholic  literature,  and  show  them 
to  the  world,  is  a  puzzle  to  more  than  the  present 
writer.  To  suppose,  for  a  moment,  that  this  modest 
volume  is  going  to  break  the  spell  of  silence  that  hangs 
around  us  is  a  presumption  that  I  am  not  so  foolish 
as  to  entertain.  But  I  know,  to  vary  the  simile,  that 
I  am  turning  up  the  first  sod  over  a  rich  and  inex- 
haustible mine,  that  would  yield  undreamed  of  riches 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  67 

under  a  better  system  of  Catholic  education.  And 
from  this  retreat  I  think  I  can  see  indications  in 
Ireland  that  these  happy  times  are  near  at  hand. 

I  think  in  journalistic  and  professional  circles  in 
Dublin  and  elsewhere  there  has  arisen  a  taste  for 
higher  studies  on  Catholic  lines.  Perhaps  the  work 
I  have  sketched  out  for  Charlie  has  already  begun — 
that  the  idea  of  a  new  Catholic  propaganda  is  not 
altogether  illusory.  However  that  may  be,  I  launch 
this  new  volume  on  the  very  turbid  seas  of  English 
literature.  And  whether  it  succeeds  or  fails,  I  think 
I  may  send  it  forward  with  these  assurances  culled 
from  the  greatest  living  dramatist,  and  perhaps  the 
greatest  of  living  poets  : — 

"  If  there  be  good  in  that  I  wrought, 
Thy  hand  compelled  it,  Master,  Thine. 
Where  I  have  failed  to  meet  Thy  Thought, 
I  know  through  Thee  the  blame  is  mine. 

"  One  stone  the  more  swings  to  her  place 
In  the  dread  Temple  of  Thy  Worth- 
It  is  enough  that  through  Thy  grace 
I  saw  nought  common  on  Thy  earth. 

"  Take  not  that  vision  from  my  ken  ! 
Oh,  whatsoe'er  may  spoil  or  speed 
Help  me  to  need  no  aid  from  men, 
That  I  may  help  such  men  as  need." 

Doneraile,  Sept.  8th,  1896. 


CATHOLIC    LITERARY 
CRITICISM 

IV 

It  is  only  in  very  recent  times  that  criticism  has 
come  to  be  regarded  as  a  science,  or  to  speak  more 
correctly,  as  an  accomplishment,  the  only  credentials 
of  which  are  the  assumption  of  its  possession.  A 
science  supposes  apprenticeship,  and  qualifications 
tested  by  examination,  or  the  tacit  approval  of  experts. 
But  no  one,  surely,  expects  that  the  vast  majority  of 
critics  should  be  subjected  to  such  trials,  or  should 
be  expected  to  submit  the  only  diploma  of  merit  in 
a  work  of  their  own  creation.  Yet  no  man  has  a  right 
to  pull  down  who  cannot  build  up  again.  For  it  is 
plain  that  a  child  may  pluck  to  pieces  a  flower,  which 
only  the  All-Powerful  could  frame  and  decorate.  I 
am  speaking  of  analytical  and  destructive  criticism, 
for  the  science  of  synthetic  and  constructive  criticism 
has  yet  to  be  discovered.  And  yet  it  is  the  great 
desideratum  in  modern  times,  especially  for  us, 
Catholics.  Mr.  Arnold,  who  approaches  nearer  to 
the  ideal  of  this  master-critic  than  any  writer  of  our 
century  (if  we  may,  perhaps,  except  Mr.  Taine),  has 
told  us  that  the  great  work  to  which  moderns  are 
called  is  a  better,  higher,  more  world-wide  criticism 
than  any  we  have  yet  known.  This  he  defines  to  be 
"  the  disinterested  endeavour  to  learn  and  propagate 

68 


THE  LITERARY  LIFE  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  69 

the  best  that  is  known  and  thought  in  the  world." 
"  Real  criticism,"  he  says,  "  is  essentially  the  exercise 
of  curiosity  as  to  ideas  and  all  subjects,  for  their  own 
sakes,  apart  from  any  practical  interest  they  may 
serve  ;  it  obeys  an  instinct  prompting  it  to  try  to 
know  the  best  that  is  known  and  thought  in  the  world, 
irrespectively  of  practice,  politics,  and  everything  of 
the  kind,  and  to  value  knowledge  and  thought  as  they 
approach  this  best,  without  the  intrusion  of  any  other 
consideration  whatever."  I  would,  of  course,  entirely 
disagree  with  Mr.  Arnold  in  what  he  considers  the 
best  thought  of  the  world  ;  for  he  would  regard  it 
from  a  purely  literary  and  artistic  standpoint ;  and  we 
cannot  regard  thought,  or  written  or  spoken  word, 
without  relation  to  the  highest  and  supremest  issues 
that  are  at  stake  in  the  world.  But  I  gladly  welcome 
the  definition  that  criticism  is  the  pursuit  and  study 
of  high  thought  and  adequate  execution  ;  and  as  such 
takes  its  rank  amongst  the  very  greatest  of  the  sciences 
that  cast  their  light  athwart  the  footsteps  of  humanity. 
For  men  need  guidance  to-day  as  of  old.  Not  many 
readers  can  trust  their  own  judgments.  And  it  is 
easy  to  conceive  readers,  young  and  old,  hopelessly 
bewildered  and  dazed  in  the  awful  flood  of  printed 
matter  that  is  yearly  flung  from  the  printing-presses 
of  the  world  ;  and  still  more  hopelessly  bewildered 
at  the  conflicting  opinions  that  are  thrust  upon  them 
from  all  directions  as  to  what  is  vicious  and  ephemeral, 
or  what  is  useful  and  permanent,  in  modern  literature. 
A  critic,  therefore,  serves  a  most  useful  purpose  in 
wisely  discriminating  between  the  valuable  and  useful 
elements  of  literature  ;  and  I  should  consider  a  good 


yo  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

Catholic  critic  endowed  almost  with  an  apostolic 
vocation  of  being  able  to  "  try  all  things  "  with  im- 
punity, and  "  hold  fast  by  what  is  good." 

Of  the  intelligence  and  wisdom,  the  delicacy  of 
perception,  and  the  wide  liberalism  of  thought,  that 
should  be  the  dowry  of  such  a  writer,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  speak  with  exaggeration.  Very  great 
issues  are  at  stake.  The  best  thinkers  in  America 
and  the  British  Isles  are  unanimous  in  the  belief  that 
quite  a  new  departure  in  our  Catholic  literature  is 
demanded  by  our  own  necessities,  and  still  more  by 
the  duties  we  owe  our  Christian  brethren  who  are 
outside  the  pale  of  the  Church.  It  is  the  written  word 
that  tells  best  to  a  generation  that  is  omnivorous  in 
its  reading.  But  the  written  word  must  be  conveyed 
through  an  attractive  channel  ;  and  that  channel  is 
what  is  designated  by  the  broad  title — literature.  It 
is  through  literature  we  have  to  work  and  convey  to 
the  minds  of  our  own  people  a  thirst  for  knowledge 
and  principle  and  the  encouragement  that  comes 
from  high  ideas  and  noble  language,  the  exalted  truths 
and  the  thrilling  ideas  that  are  part  of  our  heritage. 
And  it  is  through  literature  we  have  to  open  the  vast 
treasures  of  the  Church,  and  show  them  to  those  who 
believe  we  are  stricken  with  the  curse  of  intellectual 
poverty.  Let  me  take  one  department.  Have  we 
popularised  our  philosophy  ?  Attempts  have  been 
made  to  translate  it  from  the  folios  of  the  Fathers  to 
the  dainty  octavos  and  duodecimos  of  modern  libraries. 
Some  manuals  of  philosophy  and  its  history  have  been 
published.  Yet  they  lack  attractiveness.  And  here 
under  my  hand  is  a  treatise  on  Modern  Pantheism, 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  71 

to  which,  owing  to  its  wonderful  brilliancy  of  style, 
any  reader  might  turn  with  pleasure  when  wearied 
with  the  inanities  of  a  modern  novel.  Is  our  fiction 
attractive  and  readable  ?  Mr.  Edmond  Gosse,  in  the 
North  American  Review,  declares  that  the  great  cha- 
racteristic of  the  last  decade  of  years  has  been  the 
abnormal  and  disproportionate,  but  unquestioned 
development  of  the  novel.  He  even  startles  us  with 
the  assertion  that  our  best  writers  are  drawn  irresis- 
tibly in  that  direction  ;  and  he  even  puts  forward  the 
rather  daring  speculation  that  if  men  like  Buckle, 
Newman  or  Ruskin  had  been  in  their  prime  during 
the  last  few  years,  they  would  have  chosen  fiction  as 
the  means  of  putting  forward  and  emphasizing  their 
pet  theories.  How  do  we  Catholics  stand  in  that 
particular  ?  And  in  poetry,  what  position  do  we  hold  ? 
And  is  our  Ecclesiastical  History,  with  all  its  beautiful 
episodes,  familiar  to  the  reading  public  ?  These  are 
questions  that  may  cause  us  some  heart-burnings  and 
anxious  searching  of  consciences  ;  and  these  are  the 
questions  which  a  Catholic  critic  has  the  power  of 
solving  to  our  satisfaction.  For  it  is  not  either  writers 
or  material  that  we  lack.  It  is  the  sympathetic  appre- 
ciation of  what  is  good  in  our  literature  and  the 
kindly  rejection  of  what  is  weak.  As  to  our  material, 
we  have  for  philosophy,  the  vast  treasure-houses  of 
the  Fathers  ;  for  poetry,  subjects  that  reach  from 
the  lowliest  work  of  Nature,  seen  as  the  handiwork 
of  God,  up  to  the  vast  and  awful  sublimities  of  the 
last  Cantos  of  the  Paradise  ;  for  essays,  we  have  all 
the  complexities  of  modern  civilisation  as  they  are 
studied  under  the  piercing  light  and  unravelled  by 


72  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

the  unerring  hand  of  the  Church's  teaching  and  dis- 
cipline ;  for  fiction,  we  have  Catholic  life  in  our  cities, 
aur  towns,  our  prairies,  on  Irish  hills,  in  English 
oastles,  on  American  lakes  and  mountains,  in  the  sweet 
cmenities  and  regularities  of  Catholic  married  life,  in 
the  sublime  simplicity  of  our  convents  ;  in  our 
soldiers  and  sailors,  our  schoolboys,  our  priests,  our 
professional  men,  our  merchants,  our  great  ladies, 
our  simple,  faithful  servants.  We  have  English  and 
German  Catholicity,  Polish  and  Irish  to  deal  with  ; 
and  we  have  above  all  certain  well-defined  elements 
and  principles  that  will  keep  our  novels  from  running 
into  the  dreadful  issues  that  mark  all  modern  English 
novels.  And  the  writers,  where  are  they  ?  There 
are  many  in  the  field  ;  many  more,  who  would  come 
forward  if  they  expected,  or  had  any  reason  to  expect, 
a  fair,  if  not  a  kindly  recognition  of  their  work.  Now, 
it  is  just  here  that  a  good  Catholic  critic  is  invaluable 
to  our  literature.  He  can  understand  what  is  written. 
This  should  be  his  first  accomplishment.  And  it  is 
a  rare  one.  To  enter  into  an  author's  feelings  and 
designs,  to  know  what  he  aims  at,  to  separate  essen- 
tials from  accidentals  ;  and,  if  the  work  is  solidly 
good,  to  recognize  it  as  such- — these  are  qualifications 
that  suppose  a  great  deal  of  discernment  and  experi- 
ence. In  judging,  for  instance,  of  poetry,  what  delicacy 
of  feeling,  what  a  sense  of  musical  notation,  may  be 
required  !  It  is  notorious  that  great  thinkers  on 
great  subjects,  may  be  absolutely  without  a  sense  of 
harmony.  It  is  even  true  that  writers  whose  prose 
style  is  absolutely  perfect  in  tone  and  form,  may  lack 
not  only  the  musical  sense,  but  even  the  conception 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  73 

of  the  essentials  of  poetry.  I  have  before  my  mind, 
as  I  write,  the  name  of  a  writer,  whose  works  from  a 
historical  and  philosophical  standpoint  are  monu- 
mental ;  and  who  has  also  written  some  chopped 
lines  of  prose,  which  not  all  the  charity  of  his  friends 
can  keep  him  from  believing  are  Miltonic  in  form  and 
conception.  The  highest  poetry,  as  a  fact,  does  not 
come  into  the  domain  of  criticism  at  all.  It  soars 
above,  and  eludes  the  grasp  of  the  critic.  It  is  some- 
times not  unintelligible  but  inexplicable  to  the  poet 
himself.  He  can  neither  analyze,  nor  explain  it. 
Does  not  Plato  say  so  :  "  All  good  poets,  epic  as  well 
as  lyric,  compose  their  beautiful  poems,  not  as  works 
of  art,  but  because  they  are  inspired  and  possessed. 
For  the  poet  is  a  light,  and  winged,  and  holy  thing, 
and  there  is  no  invention  in  him  until  he  has  been 
inspired."  How  then  can  a  man  who  knows  nothing 
of  the  divine  afflatus,  deal  with  this  aerial  being  ? 
Well,  he  clips  and  burns  the  wings  of  this  "  light, 
winged,  and  holy  thing,"  and  makes  him  a  creeping 
caterpillar. 

Again,  some  lonely  student,  who  has  been,  in  his 
seclusion,  feeding  on  the  marrow  of  giants,  puts  forth, 
it  may  be  resolutely,  it  may  be  timidly,  some  essence 
of  what  has  become  to  him  vital  and  necessary  truth. 
It  is  put  in  strange  language,  and  is  without  the  musty 
odour  of  medievalism  or  the  schools.  A  timid  critic 
will  sniff  ominously  at  it,  and  pass  it  by.  A  too  daring 
critic  will  strive  to  annihilate  it,  and  fail.  The  matured 
and  discriminating  mind  of  one  who  is  well  grounded 
in  sacred  sciences  and  their  modern  applications  will 
alone  understand  it  and  let  the  world  know  of  it. 


74  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

Yet,  if  this  grave  critic  does  not  come  by,  how  surely 
that  work,  which  might  be  fraught  with  all  kinds  of 
important  consequences  to  the  Church  and  the  world, 
will  be  flung  aside  to  rot  on  bookseller's  shelves  or 
adorn  the  topmost  level  of  a  lending-library. 

Granted,  then,  sufficient  knowledge  and  liberality 
of  mind  in  our  critic,  I  should  say  that  his  first  prin- 
ciple in  selecting  for  commendation  a  Catholic  book 
should  be  the  reversal  or  rather  the  direct  contra- 
dictory of  the  old  scholastic  maxim,  Bomim  ex  Integra 
causa,  malum  ex  quocunque  defectu.  A  perfectly  healthy 
axiom  in  moral  science.  A  vicious  and  pernicious 
maxim  in  criticism.  Writers,  like  their  books,  are 
not  perfect.  Young  writers,  particularly,  will  slip 
into  solecisms  very  easily,  because  in  aiming  at  a 
main  object  they  are  prone  to  forget  side  issues. 
Again,  writers  who  are  vividly  impressed  with  certain 
ideas,  are  naturally  intense  in  their  expressions.  Is 
it  not  George  Eliot  who  has  said  somewhere,  "  Art, 
of  necessity,  intensifies  "  ?  It  is  its  province — its 
vocation.  What  would  Turner  be  without  his  in- 
tense idealism  ?  What  would  Watts  be,  without  his 
intense,  sometimes  painful  realism  ?  The  bare  truth 
never  convinces.  A  too  strict  adherence  to  the  features 
of  man  or  nature  generally  ends  in  a  bathos.  If, 
therefore,  a  writer  who  feels  intensely  the  necessity 
of  driving  home  his  ideas  to  the  public  mind,  sins 
inadvertently  by  faults  of  art  or  even  by  venial  extra- 
vagances of  principles,  it  is  neither  prudent  nor  kind 
to  condemn  him  absolutely  and  to  close  the  book  to 
a  large  class  of  readers. 
And  this  thought  brings  me  naturally  to  what  is 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  75 

the  immediate  subject  of  this  paper — the  ethical 
aspect  of  criticism.  I  am  addressing  Catholics,  who, 
whatever  their  position  may  be,  can  never  put  off  the 
sense  of  moral  responsibility.  I  am  not  addressing 
that  school  of  insolence  and  incompetence  which  is 
best  represented  by  such  sheets  as  the  Saturday  Review. 
Let  us  keep  two  facts  in  view,  which  will  enable  us 
to  determine  principles.  The  first  is  that  which  Jean 
Paul  Richter  states,  and  which  is  unhappily  too  true, 
namely,  that  the  anonymous  character  of  a  reviewer 
gives  to  the  judgment  of  an  individual  the  weight  of 
a  college.  The  second  is,  that  nowadays  no  Catholic 
writer  can  publish  a  volume  except  at  his  own  expense. 
As  to  the  first,  however  much  we  may  regret  it,  it  is 
but  too  true.  The  writer,  who  sits  at  his  desk,  and 
hastily  cuts  the  leaves  of  a  new  volume,  wields  judi- 
cial power  of  life  and  death  over  that  volume,  according 
to  the  journal  he  represents.  And  many  a  book  has 
passed  rapidly  over  the  counter  until  some  foolish 
novice  at  the  pen  thinks  he  has  discovered  a  mistake, 
and  gloats  over  it  and  magnifies  it  until  the  public 
become  suspicious,  and  the  sale  is  suddenly  stopped. 
What  is  the  result  ?  The  publication  of  the  book  has 
cost  the  author  from  seventy  to  one  hundred  pounds. 
It  becomes  a  dead  loss.  If  then,  the  critique  which 
has  killed  the  book  has  been  an  unscrupulous  and 
an  unjust  one,  the  writer  is  unquestionably  bound  to 
restitution. 

A  book  is  pretio  aestimabtlis,  the  same  as  a  horse, 
or  a  piece  of  merchandise.  If  a  flippant,  unthinking 
critic,  whose  opinion,  however,  is  regarded  by  the 
public,  pronounces  unjustly  that  an  animal  is  unsound 


76  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

and  unsaleable,  or  a  piece  of  dry  goods  damaged,  he 
is  bound  to  restitution  if  such  an  opinion  is  wrong, 
and  he  has  uttered  it  maliciously  or  carelessly.  It  is 
the  property  of  the  author  or  the  publisher  ;  and  they 
have  a  right  that  their  property  shall  not  be  injured 
by  statements  that  are  untrue  or  unsound. 

Does  the  neglect  or  contempt  of  this  theological 
principle  account  for  the  very  pitiful  condition  of  our 
Catholic  literature  ?  Does  it  account  for  the  fact 
that  our  best  writers  have  laid  down  their  pens  ;  and 
that  a  great  many  gifted  souls  whose  vocation  is  litera- 
ture, dread  the  loss  of  money  on  the  one  hand,  or  the 
loss  of  reputation  on  the  other  ?  Would  it  account  in 
some  measure  for  that  amusing,  but  pathetic  and 
painful  admission  of  the  greatest  of  our  Catholic  living 
poets  r1  "  I  can  call  no  man  in  my  position  badly  off, 
for  I  can  double  my  income  any  day — by  laying  down 
my  pen  "  ?  That  melancholy  fact  is  staring  us  in  the 
face,  that  Aubrey  de  Vere,  the  friend  of  Wordsworth 
and  Tennyson,  and  quite  their  equal,  has  had  not 
audience,  because  of  the  Catholicity  that  deeply  per- 
meates every  line  he  wrote.  I  would  rather  have 
written  "  May  Carols  "  than  "  In  Memoriam."  Yet, 
who  reads  the  former  ;  and  who  has  not  read  the 
latter  ? 

I  am  distinctly  of  opinion,  therefore,  that  we  have 
no  Catholic  reading  public,  because  the  Higher  Criti- 
cism, or  what  1  have  ventured  to  call  constructive 
criticism,  is  unknown.  We  have  a  good  deal  of 
negative  criticism — of  which  there  are  two  great 
schools — the  hyperemic  and  the  anaemic.  Of  the  two 

*  Aubrey  de  Vere, 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  77 

the  latter  is  the  most  formidable  ;    but  let  me  take 
them  in  detail. 

The  hyperaemic  critic  is  always  young,  inexperienced 
sanguine,  self-reliant.  He  does  not,  to  use  a  phrase 
of  Cardinal  Newman's,  understand  the  solemn  weight 
and  meaning  of  words.  He  is  as  irresponsible  with 
his  pen  as  a  boy  with  a  new  revolver.  He  feels  it  his 
duty  to  kill  or  maim  something.  To  praise  a  book 
means  weakness  or  want  of  knowledge.  To  find 
fault  presupposes  wisdom  and  superiority.  And, 
therefore,  is  he  always  "  on  the  pounce  "  to  discover 
faults  and  mistakes  on  which  he  can  build  his  final 
judgment,  which  is  always  that  of  the  Quarterly 
Review  on  Keats  :  "  This  will  never  do."  His  mode 
of  reviewing  is  peculiar.  He  commences  with  a  quo- 
tation from  Aristotle  or  Plato,  generally  the  latter,  as 
being  much  more  in  vogue  than  his  great  logical  rival. 
The  application  of  this  great  principle,  thus  quoted, 
he  leaves  to  the  reader  ;  and  descends  to  particulars. 
Waiving  altogether  the  object  of  the  book,  its  con- 
struction and  technique,  he  addresses  himself  to  a 
microscopic  inspection  of  phrases  and  even  words. 
A  printer's  error  is  a  crime  ;  a  mistake  in  date,  or  a 
slip  in  some  secondary  phrase  is  magnified  into  a 
literary  misdemeanour.  '  This  author  mistakes  an 
acid  for  an  alkali,  surely  this  is  unpardonable."  "  Is 
the  author  quite  correct  in  the  date  of  the  second 
crusade  ?  We  think  not.  Surely  the  public  have  a 
right  to  expect  something  better  than  this  slip-shod 
writing."  "  The  author  here  falls  into  a  blunder  that 
would  be  unpardonable  in  a  school-boy.  He  makes 
Sinus  blaze  away  in  the  south  at  midnight  in  the 


78  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

month  of  June."  These  appear  rather  trifling  mis- 
takes, but  they  leave  the  book  limp  and  tattered 
in  the  end,  for  a  good  many  readers  follow  the  principle 
we  have  already  condemned,  malum  ex  quocunque 
defectu  ;  and  judge  of  the  value  of  the  book  by  some 
quite  extrinsic  standard,  just  as  in  some  parts  of 
England,  the  rustics  judge  of  the  qualifications  of  a 
new  parson  by  his  style  of  horsemanship.  Then 
comes  the  final  verdict :  "  On  the  whole  we  think 
the  book  may  be  recommended  to  our  readers  ;  but 
we  hope  the  author  will  do  better  in  his  next  volume." 
Who  would  invest  a  dollar  in  a  book  that  comes  before 
the  world  with  such  an  introduction  ? 

The  anaemic  school  is  worse,  for  it  generally  takes 
the  high  moral  tone.  Its  eternal  warning  to  authors 
is  peuris,  virginibusque  ;  its  motto,  maxima  reverentia 
pueris  debetur.  Very  true.  But  what  of  grown  men 
and  women  ?  Are  they  to  be  always  fed  on  whey  ? 
They  demand  a  stronger  diet.  Can  we  give  it  ?  If 
not,  they  have  the  poisonous  narcotics  of  English  and 
French  literature,  that  will  drown  all  their  Christian 
sensibilities  and  steep  them  in  that  spiritual  torpor, 
which  is  like,  unto  death. 

There  is  a  great  temptation  here  to  enter  into  a 
cognate  question,  which,  however,  does  not  come 
strictly  within  the  scope  of  this  paper,  namely,  the 
question  of  the  Catholic  novel.  It  may  be  passed  by 
the  more  easily,  because  it  has  been  so  frequently 
discussed  in  our  journals  these  latter  years.  But  to 
show  how  Catholic  authors  may  be  driven  from  the 
field  by  criticisms  of  these  retrogressive  schools,  let 
me  quote  two  instances.  In  these  islands,  within  the 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  79 

last  few  years,  we  have  had  two  promising  writers — 
the  one  in  poetry,  the  other  in  prose.  It  is  no  exaggera- 
tion to  say  that  when  the  first  volume  of  poems  by 
Francis  Thompson  appeared  a  few  years  ago,  they 
created  quite  a  sensation  in  London  literary  circles. 
The  life  of  the  author,  full  of  all  kinds  of  strange 
vicissitudes,  may  have  had  something  to  say  to  his 
sudden  popularity  in  a  community  that  is  always  on 
the  search  for  new  sensations.  But  the  novelty  of 
these  poems,  constructed  on  new  principles,  and 
inspired  with  the  loftiest  thought,  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  the  leading  literati  of  London  and  forced 
reluctant  praise  from  circles  where  the  religious  tenets 
of  the  author,  and  the  subjects  of  his  poems,  were  by 
no  means  recommendations.  The  author  was  ranked 
amongst  the  Dii  Majores  of  song,  by  the  great  Scottish 
review  on  the  one  hand,  and  by  such  authors  and 
critics  as  Richard  le  Gallienne,  etc.,  on  the  other. 
But  the  author  has  retired.  For  the  present  he  will 
write  no  more  poetry.  Why  ?  I  should  hardly  like 
to  intrude  upon  the  privacy  of  another's  thoughts  ; 
but  Francis  Thompson,  who,  with  all  his  incon- 
gruities, ranks  in  English  poetry  with  Shelley,  and 
only  beneath  Shakespeare,  has  hardly  had  any  recog- 
nition in  Catholic  circles.  If  Francis  Thompson  had 
been  an  Anglican  or  a  Unitarian,  his  praises  would 
have  been  sung  unto  the  ends  of  the  earth.  He  would 
have  been  the  creator  of  a  new  school  of  poetry. 
Disciples  would  have  knelt  at  his  feet.  Had  he  been 
a  graduate  of  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  his  bust  would 
have  been  placed  in  their  halls.  But  being  only  a 
Catholic  and  an  Ushaw  student,  he  is  allowed  to  retire, 


80  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

and  bury  in  silence  one  of  the  noblest  imaginations 
that  has  ever  been  given  to  Nature's  select  ones — her 
poets.  Only  two  Catholics — literary  Catholics — have 
noticed  this  surprising  genius — Coventry  Patmore 
and  Wilfred  Meynell.  The  vast  bulk  of  our  co- 
religionists have  not  even  heard  his  name,  although 
it  is  already  bruited  amongst  the  immortals  ;  and  the 
great  Catholic  poet,  for  whose  advent  we  have  been 
straining  our  vision,  has  passed  beneath  our  eyes, 
sung  his  immortal  songs,  and  vanished.  Now,  to  what 
class  of  criticism  has  this  great  poet  been  subjected  ? 
To  the  verbal  and  puerile  criticism  I  have  detailed 
above.  All  his  crudities  and  irregularities  were  care- 
fully noted  and  exaggerated  ;  and  the  great  kernels 
of  his  marvellous  conceptions  were  feebly  praised. 
His  latinisms  and  coined  phrases  were  counted  as 
solecisms  that  could  not  be  tolerated  ;  as  if  a  poet 
had  not  a  perfect  right  to  do  what  he  liked  with  mere 
language.  It  is  the  poets  that  have  given  us  the  English 
language  as  it  is  ;  and  to  refuse  to  a  Victorian  poet 
what  was  so  freely  conceded  to  an  Elizabethan,  is  to 
declare  that  the  tongue  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton 
had  reached  a  point  beyond  which  it  must  not  be 
developed.  There  are  undoubtedly  in  this  great 
master,  I  do  not  say  of  verse,  but  of  thought,  certain 
incongruities  that  we  cannot  explain,  such  as  applying 
to  our  Divine  Lord  the  epithet  "  The  Hound  of 
Heaven  "  ;  but  perhaps  the  poet  had  some  inner 
meaning  which  we  may  not  discern,  and  if  we  object 
to  the  title,  at  least  we  accept  the  poem  as  the  most 
wonderful  piece  of  literary  mechanism  we  possess. 
If  this  be  so  why  have  we  not  said  so  to  the  world, 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  81 

instead  of  shaking  our  heads  at  points  of  versiculation 
or  metre,  that  are  really  of  no  consequence  ?  No  ; 
our  great  poet  has  come  and  gone.  He  is  now  writing 
little  prose  sketches  for  Franciscan  Annals  at  Pan- 
tasaph.  He  will  write  no  more  poetry  for  the  present. 

The  other  example  of  our  utter  incompetency  to 
appreciate  our  Catholic  authors  and  their  works  may 
be  found  in  our  dealings  with  the  author  of  The  New 
Antigone.  When  that  book  appeared,  some  said  : 
"  At  last  we  have  entered  the  arena  with  the  world's 
own  weapons.  It  will  go  hard  with  us  or  we  shall 
succeed.  The  novel  is  the  modern  vehicle  of  thought. 
We  shall  use  it  to  propagate  truth,  as  the  world  uses 
it  to  propagate  error."  Were  there  faults  in  that  book  ? 
Yes.  But  why  did  we  dwell  on  and  exaggerate  them, 
forgetful  of  the  main  object  at  stake,  and  heedless  of 
the  splendid  valor  of  the  writer,  who  took  the  enemy's 
weapons  and  turned  them  against  himself  ?  Had 
this  brilliant  Catholic  writer  been  encouraged  he 
would  probably,  by  this  time,  have  poured  forth  a 
library  of  standard  Catholic  novels  from  his  pen. 
But  he  has  retired  from  the  prosecution  of  a  task 
thankless  and  dangerous  ;  and  he  has  been  driven 
into  this  retirement  by  the  critics  of  the  anaemic  school. 
"  When  he  appears  again,"  says  a  witty  American 
priest,  "  it  will  be  as  the  author  of  a  goody-goody 
story,  which  tells  how  little  Jemmy,  the  shoeblack, 
laboured  and  toiled  for  the  support  of  an  aged  mother, 
then  sickened  and  died  ;  and  how  little  Mamie  was 
altogether  too  good  for  this  world,  and  so  entered  a 
convent  and  lived  for  ever  and  for  ever." 

What,  then,  do  we  contend  for  ?  Simply  the  criti- 
G 


82  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

cism  that  creates,  instead  of  destroying.  Never  in 
the  history  of  the  Church's  life  was  there  a  period 
more  favourable  for  the  creation  of  a  great  Catholic 
literature.  The  world  is  listening,  if  we  could  speak. 
We  are  in  the  midst  of  a  revolt  against  all  modern 
literature.  In  poetry  there  is  an  outcry  against  the 
artificialities  that  are  poured  from  the  press  like 
Christmas  cards  and  Christmas  numbers,  and  are 
quite  as  inane  and  inartistic.  There  is  a  desire  even 
to  get  back  to  the  simplicities  of  Pope  and  Goldsmith. 
In  philosophy  we  have  but  a  rehash  of  ancient  errors 
and  a  feeble  attempt  to  reconstruct  them  into  modern 
systems.  In  religious  literature  we  have  dull  sermons, 
platitudes  about  Christianity  without  Christ,  denial  of 
dogma,  and  all  the  dreary  latitudinarianism  that  is  the 
chief  characteristic  of  modern  Protestantism.  There 
is  no  criticism  nor  critical  school.  In  essay  writing, 
obiter  dicta,  etc.,  we  have  but  the  ephemeral  papers 
of  magazines.  No  one  now  dreams  of  reproducing 
his  articles  in  the  reviews.  And  the  novel  has  gone 
down  into  the  lowest  depths  of  suggestiveness.  When 
Dean  Farrar  and  Mr.  Stead  are  at  loggerheads  as  to 
whether  a  certain  situation  in  The  Christian  means 
adultery  or  not,  we  can  understand  how  low  the 
English  novel  has  fallen.  And  the  world  is  disgusted. 
It  craves  for  some  higher  intellectual  food.  It  is  tired 
of  frothy  salaciousness.  Here,  then,  is  the  grand 
opportunity  for  Catholic  authors.  We  have  solid 
truth  to  teach  the  world,  if  only  we  can  put  it  into 
attractive  form.  But  we  must  keep  ourselves  always 
distinct  and  separate  in  our  literature.  Whatever 
be  said  of  the  wisdom  of  our  mixing  freely  amongst 
our  separated  brethren  and  familiarizing  them  with 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  83 

our  practices  and  teachings,  our  literature  must  be 
always  exclusive  and  characteristic.  It  must  not  be 
imitative  of  modern  styles,  still  less  of  modern  ideas. 
We  have  abundant  material  for  building  up  a  great 
masculine  literature,  human  and  sympathetic,  divine 
and  transcendental.  It  must  touch  human  infirmity 
without  gross  realism  ;  it  must  deal  with  passions 
without  the  luridness  of  detail  that  makes  passions 
absorbing  and  infectious.  And,  above  all,  it  must 
shed  around  human  life  and  all  its  many  environments 
that  beautiful  idealism,  which  is  our  exclusive  posses- 
sion. All  the  tendencies  of  the  world  to-day  point 
to  a  levelling  down  of  age,  sex,  position,  dignity  ;  we 
know  that  there  must  be  diversity  and  distinctiveness 
to  maintain  the  Christian  ideal.  And  we  also  know 
that  it  is  only  in  this  conservatism,  that  draws  its 
ancient  lines  and  barriers  around  rank  and  sex,  that 
either  Christian  dignity  or  Christian  morality  are  to 
be  maintained.  But  it  is  only  the  idealism  founded 
on  Catholic  dogma  that  can  effect  this.  If,  then,  the 
world  is  so  fanatical  in  its  opposition  to  this  Christian 
ideal,  and  if  to-day  the  leaders  of  its  literature  are 
iconoclasts  of  ever}'  sacred  image  and  tradition  that 
have  hitherto  been  the  hope  of  our  race,  surely  it  is 
incumbent  upon  us  to  maintain  in  all  their  integrity 
those  ideas  that  are  the  soul  of  our  religious  systems. 
And  can  there  be  a  more  ignoble  treason  than  to  bow 
to  every  foolish  whim,  that  under  the  guise  of  lite- 
rature, is  put  forth  to  please  or  pander  to  the  irregu- 
arities  of  a  world  that  is  drifting  steadily  backward 
Into  yet  another  phase  of  Neo-Paganism  ? 

It  follows,  then,  that  the  world  has  again  to  be 
taught  Christianity,  and  has  to  be  taught  it  in  its  own 


84  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

idioms  and  dialects,  that  is,  not  in  scholastic  phrases 
or  syllogisms,  not  in  the  language  of  mediaeval 
schools,  but  in  its  own  tongue — that  is,  through  the 
medium  of  literature.  It  has  been  said  that  if  St. 
Paul  were  living  to-day  he  would  be  a  journalist, 
that  is,  he  would  use  the  speediest  and  easiest  medium 
of  conveying  to  the  world  the  ideas  that  were  to  him 
as  the  breath  of  life.  Here,  then,  is  the  vocation  of 
the  young  and  ardent  Catholic  who  wishes  to  do 
something  for  Christ  before  the  shadows  fall  and  the 
night  comes  on.  And  there  cannot  be  a  loftier  voca- 
tion than  to  preach  and  teach  to  the  wide  world,  that 
is  drifting  so  rapidly  from  the  side  of  Christ,  some- 
thing of  that  divine  sweetness  and  light  that  have 
been,  and  must  ever  be,  the  hope  and  solace  of 
humanity.  But  such  neophytes  need  encouragement, 
and  as  such  they  become  the  wards  of  the  Catholic 
Press.  If  inefficient  or  weak,  it  is  not  beyond  the 
courtesies  of  the  language  or  the  delicacy  of  Christian 
refinement  to  ask  them,  without  giving  pain,  to 
retire  from  an  arena  where  their  presence  would  but 
embarrass  better  qualified  champions.  But  if  there 
be  a  hope  or  promise  of  success  it  is  surely  the  duty 
of  the  press  to  raise  those  hopes  and  confirm  such 
promise,  and  this  on  independent  grounds,  heedless 
of  what  a  godless  journalism,  to  which  the  name  of 
Catholicism  is  maranatha,  may  put  forth.  Nay,  the 
very  highest  testimony  to  the  excellence  of  a  Catholic 
work  should  be  the  revilings  of  a  press  that  is  not 
only  material  in  all  its  concepts,  but  which  seems  to 
be  always  hesitating  between  the  mock  humility  of 
agnosticism  and  the  unblushing  indecorum  of 
blasphemy. 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  85 

It  is  a  question,  whether  up  to  this  time  we  have 
not  been  too  deferential  to  the  criticism  of  a  hostile 
press,  as  well  as  too  liberal  in  our  estimates  not  only 
of  anti- Catholic,  but  even  anti-theistic  literature. 
There  is  a  kind  of  Catholic  liberalism  that  sees  too 
much  good  in  the  poisonous  and  noxious  products 
of  the  Protestant  and  infidel  press,  and  there  is  a 
tendency  to  bow  down  before  the  fetishes  which  a 
corrupt  generation  finds  to  worship  in  its  sciences, 
in  its  arts  and  in  its  letters.  Our  writers  forget  that 
in  the  words  of  Tertullian  "  every  arrow  that  is  shot 
against  us  has  been  dragged  from  the  quiver  of 
truth."  If  we  have  strength  to  use  the  world's 
weapons  against  itself  it  is  what  the  world  has  already 
done  to  ourselves.  And  we  have  some  idea  that  the 
equipments  of  our  armouries  are  not  only  adequate, 
but  superabundant  for  the  warfare  in  which  we  are 
engaged.  Let  us,  therefore,  have  a  Catholic  literature, 
and  let  us  acknowledge  it.  Let  us  reserve  our  scorn 
for  our  antagonists,  and  keep  our  encouragement  for 
ourselves.  It  is  unwise  in  the  forefront  of  the  battle 
to  depreciate  our  forces.  Not  that  we  need  admit 
the  puerile  and  weakly  elements  that  may  undermine 
our  strength.  But  our  solicitude  should  be  to 
strengthen  the  ranks  of  our  literary  workers,  to  be 
eager  for  their  success,  so  that  when  the  world  bows 
down  before  Catholic  genius,  it  may  be  tempted  to 
consider  Catholic  truth,  and  to  forget  the  traditional 
scorn,  which,  unfortunately,  we  ourselves  too  fre- 
quently adopt ;  and  whose  watchword  is  :  "  Can 
anything  good  come  out  of  Nazareth  ?  " 


THE  AMERICAN  REPORT 
ON    IRISH      EDUCATION 


This  important  document,  compiled  by  W. 
Cloudesley  Brereton,  formerly  Inspector  under  the 
Intermediate  Board,  is  to  appear  next  year  ;  and  the 
Times  in  its  Literary  Supplement  has  deemed  it  of 
such  importance  that  it  has  already  published  a 
Summary,  which  gives,  we  presume,  a  fair  idea  of 
what  the  Report  will  contain.  If  we  are  to  judge 
the  Report  by  this  Summary,  it  will  be  valuable  so 
far  as  the  history  of  educational  movements  and 
changes  in  Ireland  is  concerned.  But  we  have  a 
suspicion  that,  as  is  quite  usual  in  all  such  cases,  it 
is  only  officials  or  professional  experts  that  have  been 
consulted  ;  and  that  the  Inspector  has  not  gone 
down  to  face  the  problem  and  examine  it  in  those 
places  where  alone  it  can  be  studied  and  solved  ; 
that  is,  in  the  schools  themselves,  and  in  the  lives 
of  the  children  after  they  have  left  school,  and  passed 
into  the  work-a-day  world.  If  an  inspector  had  taken 
that  trouble,  it  would  have  probably  saved  him  the 
gigantic  and  useless  labour  of  poring  over  worthless 
statistics  in  the  pigeon-holes  of  Education  Offices  ; 
and  probably,  he  could  have  compressed  what  we 
presume  will  be  an  elaborate  account  of  the  progress 
and  prospects  of  education  in  Ireland  in  the  simple 

86 


THE  LITERARY  LIFE  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  87 

words  :  There  is  none  !  At  least,  that  is  the  verdict 
of  every  thoughtful  man  in  Ireland  to-day. 

The  census  returns  of  the  number  of  "  illiterate  " 
persons  in  Ireland  are  very  misleading.  We  do  not 
believe  there  is  wilful  deception  of  the  Officers  ; 
but  the  standard  of  education  is  so  very  low  that 
thousands  are  returned  as  capable  of  reading  and 
writing,  who  are  barely  able  to  spell  laboriously 
through  the  columns  of  a  newspaper,  or  scrawl  their 
names  in  a  half  illegible  manner  on  a  bank-bill. 
Most  of  these  semi-illiterate  persons  have  passed 
through  the  usual  classes  or  standards  in  the  Primary 
Schools  ;  but  owing  to  causes,  which  we  shall  after- 
wards specifically  mention,  they  abandon  the  habit 
of  reading  and  writing  after  leaving  school,  and  sink 
back  into  a  condition  of  almost  absolute  illiteracy. 
Any  one  who  has  ever  witnessed  a  few  peasants 
drawing  a  bill  on  a  village  bank,  or  signing  a  paper 
for  the  purchase  of  land,  and  seen  their  mental  agony 
whilst  they  try  to  decipher  the  meaning  of  the  docu- 
ment, and  then  append  their  signatures,  will  testify 
to  this.  And  what  is  true  of  our  agricultural  districts, 
is  equally  true  of  manufacturing  centres,  where  the 
young  lads  and  lasses,  after  two  years,  have  almost 
entirely  lost  the  faculty  of  reading  and  writing.  As 
for  a  taste  for  reading  anything  beyond  some  light 
novel — or  the  weekly  political  newspaper — it  is 
absolutely  unknown. 

We  do  not  know  whether  Mr.  Brereton  has  studied 
this  aspect  of  his  subject ;  but  as  it  embraces  the 
whole  subject,  being  simply  the  net  result  of  all  this 
elaborate  mechanism,  with  its  ever-growing  staffs  of 


88  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

officials  ;  and  as  it  means,  in  very  plain  English, 
comparative,  if  not  absolute  failure,  it  may  be  a 
useful,  although  an  ungracious  task,  to  cast  a  little 
light  on  the  subject.  And  first  with  regard  to  primary 
education. 

Perhaps  the  best  manner  of  elucidating  this 
subject  is  by  comparison  of  the  old  and  new  methods, 
so  far  as  the  attitude  of  the  teachers  and  the  nature 
of  educational  work  and  methods  are  concerned. 

There  is  a  marked  difference  between  the  old 
untrained  school-master  and  the  young  teachers  who 
now  come  out,  year  after  year,  from  our  Training 
Colleges,  and  pass  at  once  into  our  schools  as  assist- 
ants or  principals.  With  the  old  generation,  teaching 
was  something  like  what  Carlyle  was  always  dreaming 
of  and  talking  about — a  kind  of  lofty  vocation,  a 
priestly  function,  which  he  would  not  rank  lower 
than  that  of  a  Kirk-Minister  or  voluntary  preacher 
under  the  Free  Church.  The  principal  teachers  then 
were  all  old  men,  who  had  been  trained  under  fiery 
discipline,  and  were  rather  too  anxious  that  the 
characters  of  the  young  should  be  annealed,  mentally 
and  morally,  in  the  same  way.  The  discipline  of 
the  school  was  severe.  Corporal  punishment  was 
administered  in  a  manner  which  would  send  a 
teacher  of  to-day  into  penal  servitude.  The  hours 
were  long,  generally  from  10  a.m.  to  5  p.m.  In  many 
places  there  were  morning  sessions  from  7  a.m.  to 
9  a.m. ;  and  night-schools  were  the  rule,  not  the 
exception.  There  were  no  stated  times  for  vacations. 
The  old  teachers  strenuously  objected  to  such  a 
waste  of  time  ;  and  in  many  towns  in  Ireland  to-day, 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  89 

weird  traditions  have  come  down  of  desperate 
attempts  made  by  the  boys  to  "  bar  out  "  the  masters, 
until  the  latter  yielded  to  the  demand  of  at  least  a 
short  cessation  from  school-work. 

It  is  rather  an  interesting  speculation  why  these  old 
men  were  so  much  averse  from  granting  periodical 
holidays,  or  lessening  the  hours  of  daily  school- 
work.  There  really  is  no  explanation  of  such  an 
attitude  so  totally  different  from  everything  we  are 
accustomed  to  in  modern  life,  except  that  those  men 
had  conceived  a  perfect  passion  for  work ;  that 
solitude  was  unbearable ;  that  they  were  never 
happy  without  the  book  and  the  ferule,  and  the 
daily  worship  of  a  crowd  of  awe-stricken  and  reverent 
pupils.  It  must  be  remembered  that  at  that  time 
travelling  was  almost  unknown  except  amongst  the 
wealthier  classes.  No  teacher  would  think  of  wasting 
weeks  by  the  seaside,  much  less  of  going  abroad. 
And  a  very  important  factor  in  their  monotonous 
but  singularly  useful  lives  was  that  they  _were  all 
deeply  conscientious  men,  and  that  in,  addition  to 
their  obligations  to  the  State,  they  had,  owing  to  the 
then  prevailing  system  of  school-fees,  a  sense  of 
personal  duty  to  the  pupils,  and  a  corresponding 
interest  in  their  educational  advancement.  There 
never  was  a  bolder  or  wiser  plan,  from  their  own 
standpoint,  than  the  attempt  of  British  Ministers, 
from  time  to  time,  to  subsidise  the  Irish  Catholic 
Clergy  ;  and  never  a  wiser  policy  than  that  adopted 
by  these  latter  in  thwarting  and  rejecting  such 
attempts.  And  for  the  same  reason  there  never  was 
a  greater,  and  alas  !  more  irremediable  mistake  than 


go  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

that  made  by  the  National  Board  of  Education  in 
abolishing  school-fees.  It  converted  the  teachers 
into  State-officials,  and  destroyed  all  personal  interest 
in  their  pupils.  And  it  broke  up  that  sympathy, 
arising  out  of  mutual  assistance,  that  existed  between 
the  teacher  and  the  parents  of  the  children.  It  turned 
the  schools  into  Government  Lycfos,  controlled  by 
penal  laws  ;  and  whilst  it  removed  from  the  con- 
sciences of  the  teachers  that  sense  of  commutative 
justice  that  arose  from  the  personal  obligations  of 
giving  value  for  the  stipends  received,  it  took  away 
at  the  same  time  from  the  minds  of  the  parents  that 
keen  interest  in  the  educational  progress  of  their 
children  that  naturally  is  felt  where  it  is  well  paid 
for.  Hence,  to-day  we  find,  in  the  few  voluntary 
schools  of  the  country,  which  are  not  under  the 
management  of  the  National  Board,  and  where  fees 
of  one  penny  or  twopence  a  week,  up  to  ten  shillings 
a  quarter,  are  paid  by  the  pupils,  the  attendance  is 
cent,  per  cent. ;  whereas,  in  the  National  Schools, 
where  no  fees  are  paid,  and  where  very  often,  as  in 
the  case  of  Convent  Schools,  books,  papers,  slates, 
pens,  etc.,  are  supplied  gratis  to  the  children,  the 
attendance  seldom  reaches  beyond  65  per  cent,  of 
the  pupils  on  rolls. 

Under  the  old  system  again,  a  great  deal  of 
initiative  or  voluntary  work  was  permitted  to  the 
teachers  ;  and  with  their  extraordinary  zeal,  they 
eagerly  availed  themselves  of  the  permission.  The  sub- 
jects marked  on  the  Time-tables  were  very  limited  in 
number ;  and  the  educational  capacities  of  the 
teachers  did  not  reach  beyond  them.  But  what  they 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  91 

knew,  they  knew  well  ;  and  they  had  the  talent  to  im- 
part it  thoroughly.  The  inspection  was  loose  and 
unmethodical.  The  managers  rarely  visited  the 
schools  ;  the  inspectors  came  once  a  year  for  the 
annual  examination.  There  was  a  certain  freedom 
permissible  in  the  arrangement  of  lessons,  so  that  if 
boys  or  girls  had  a  fancy  or  an  aptitude  for  a  particu- 
lar subject  or  science,  they  were  allowed  to  exercise 
it  without  molestation.  And  if  a  class  interested  in 
geography  or  mathematics  seemed  to  covet  a  few 
minutes  more  in  that  class,  no  objection  was  made. 
We  remember  one  clear  instance,  where  two  young 
lads,  aged  12  to  14  respectively,  were  permitted  by 
the  master  to  spend  the  seven  hours  of  a  day  for  the 
last  two  years  of  their  course  in  working  out  problems 
in  algebra,  or  exercises  (or  as  they  were  called  "  cuts  ") 
in  Euclid  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other  subject. 
This  gave  them  an  extraordinary  power  of  mental 
concentration,  that  made  all  succeeding  subjects 
comparatively  easy. 
The  results  of  this  old  system  were  at  least  twofold  : 

(1)  Thoroughness  in  Teaching  ; 

(2)  A   passion   for   self-improvement   on   the 

pupil's  part. 

As  we  have  already  said,  the  subjects  were  limited. 
They  embraced  : 

Reading,  Euclid, 

Writing,  Algebra, 

Arithmetic,  Mensuration, 

Geography. 


gz  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

And  all  of  these,  with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  read- 
ing (the  comparative  unimportance  of  which  we  shall 
discuss  hereafter)  were  taught  in  a  manner  which  is 
now  impossible. 

And  the  teachers  had  the  singular  and  unique 
success  of  implanting  in  the  minds  of  their  pupils 
a  sense  that,  on  leaving  school,  they  were  but  com- 
mencing their  life's  education,  which  would  end  .only 
with  life.  Hence  they  turned  out  generation  after 
generation  of  reading  men;,  eager  to  supplement  the 
elementary  education  of  their  childhood  by  the  larger 
reading  of  after  life.  The  very  fact  that  so  much 
liberty  of  initiative  was  allowed,  that  studies  were 
not  altogether  taskwork,  that  there  was  a  kind  of 
sympathy  between  teachers  and  pupils  arising  out 
of  a  mutual  love  for  kindred  subjects,  would  go  far 
to  account  for  this.  The  eye  of  the  pupil  was  upon 
his  master  ;  the  eye  of  the  master  on  his  pupil.  The 
inspector  was  not  much  considered.  If  he  chose  to 
give  an  unfavourable  report,  the  master's  pocket  did 
not  suffer  too  severely,  if  the  parents  thought  their 
boys  were  treated  well. 

All  this  is  now  changed.  The  personnel  of  the 
teaching  staff  has  undergone  surprising  modifications, 
and  the  methods  of  teaching  have  been  revolutionised. 
The  principals  and  assistants  in  all  National  Schools 
to-day  are  comparatively  young  men,  most  of  whom 
have  been  recently  trained  at  some  recognised 
colleges  here  and  there  in  the  country  ;  but  with 
no  further  experience.  They  have  learned  to  teach 
scientifically.  Many  of  them  have  no  idea  of  making 
teaching  a  profession.  Conscious  of  much  ability, 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  93 

they  determine  that  that  school  shall  be  a  stepping- 
stone  to  something  higher — a  little  pause  in  the  race 
of  life  before  striding  on  to  the  final  goal.  The  little 
children  are  no  longer  the  sons  and  daughters  of 
friends,  who  are  to  be  watched  over  with  more  than 
paternal  vigilance,  and  whose  futures  are  an  object 
of  as  much  solicitude  to  the  teacher  as  his  own. 
Unlike  the  old  teachers,  he  does  not  look  forward 
to  the  time  when  that  brilliant  young  barrister  will 
call  to  his  school  and  thank  him  publicly  for  all  the 
wise  counsel,  all  the  sage  admonitions,  that  he 
received  ;  or  the  young  priest  or  minister,  flushed 
with  the  glory  of  ordination,  will  steal  in  and  greet 
his  old  master,  and  give  him  his  blessing  ;  or  that 
young  girl,  who  has  made  a  prosperous  match,  will 
roll  up  in  her  carriage  and  place  a  bunch  of  violets 
on  the  master's  desk  without  a  word.  All  that  has 
gone  ;  the  pupils  are  now  so  many  units,  who  have 
to  be  worked  up  into  decimals  to  prove  to  Treasury 
officials  that  there  has  been  a  certain  number  of 
wild  Irish  in  attendance  at  that  school,  and  that 
there  is  no  loophole,  alas  !  for  escape.  His  salary, 
even  to  the  decimals,  must  be  paid. 

It  would  be  the  gravest  injustice  here  if  we  let  it 
for  a  moment  be  supposed  that  the  modern  teacher 
is  indifferent  or  careless  about  his  pupils,  except  in 
so  far  as  they  help  him  to  his  salary  and  increments. 
But,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  there  is  scarcely  a  teacher 
in  the  country  who  has  settled  down  permanently 
in  his  locality  without  hope  of  a  better  school  in  a 
more  comfortable  place  ;  and  in  view  of  the  fact  that 
so  many  Irish  teachers  are  flying  away  to  England  t 


94  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

or  seeking  situations  in  the  Civil  Service,  and  in  view 
of  the  fact  that  there  are  no  longer  those  mutual 
relations  between  teachers  and  pupils  that  arose  from 
the  payment  of  school  fees,  it  is  no  exaggeration  to 
say  that  the  calling  of  a  National  Teacher  in  Ireland 
has  sunk  down  from  the  Carlylean  idea  to  one  of 
mere  officialdom — the  paid  hireling  of  the  State. 

The  modern  methods  of  education  tend  to  accen- 
tuate this.  The  teacher  is  now  bound,  hand  and  foot, 
without  the  slightest  power  of  initiative.  The 
manager,  generally  a  clergyman,  visits  the  schools 
once  a  week  or  oftener.  The  manager's  eye  is  on 
the  time-table,  lest,  perchance,  the  inspector  may 
come  in  and  find  a  class  out  of  order,  and  a  prompt, 
and  perhaps  peremptory  message  will  reach  him  from 
Dublin.  The  inspectors  (senior,  district,  and 
assistants)  visit  the  schools  at  all  times,  and  a  few 
days  after  the  annual  examination  a  visit  of  surprise 
may  be  invariably  expected.  That  visit  is  promptly 
begun  by  a  prompt  examination  of  "  Rolls,"  a  com- 
parison between  the  rolls  marked  and  the  number 
present ;  a  sharp  survey  of  the  names  that  might  be 
stricken  off  the  rolls  ;  an  elaborate  examination  of 
decimals  along  frightful  columns  of  figures ;  the 
abstracts  of  each  day's  work,  of  monthly  summaries, 
of  yearly  reports,  etc.,  etc.  The  efficiency  of  the 
school  is  nowhere  in  comparison  with  the  neatness 
and  accuracy  of  roll-books.  And  so,  too,  the  least 
divergence  from  the  time-table  which,  to  the  un- 
initiated at  least,  is  as  puzzling  as  a  Bradshaw,  is 
instantly  reported  to  head-quarters.  Let  a  class  be 
ever  so  interested  in  a  subject,  let  a  boy  or  girl  be 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  95 

ever  so  engrossed  in  some  problem  of  physics  or 
mathematics — the  clock  strikes,  and  the  book  is 
shut — and  the  interest  of  that  young  mind  in  that 
subject  vanishes,  never  to  return. 

This  abuse  arises  in  great  part  from  the  multiplicity 
of  subjects  that  now  form  the  curriculum  of  primary 
education.  Let  it  be  remembered  that  it  is  of  primary 
education  alone  we  are  speaking  now.  For  one  of 
the  worst  abuses  that  prevail  in  Ireland  is  the  unhappy 
tendency  to  foster  the  foolish  ambition  and  pride  of 
the  people  by  allowing  primary  education  to  overlap 
Intermediate  studies  ;  and  these  latter  to  encroach 
upon  the  University  Curriculum.  We  have  heard 
"  Analysis "  taught  to  little  girls  in  the  fourth 
standard  in  a  manner  that  might  suit  young  gra- 
duates in  a  Scotch  University  ;  and  the  higher  grades 
of  Tonic  Sol-Fa  taught  to  girls  who  would  much 
prefer  the  latest  music-hall  chorus  from  London  or 
Liverpool.  There  are  two  truths  that  seem  never 
to  have  been  grasped  by  Irish  educationists.  The 
first  is  that  they  rate  the  average  intelligence  of  Irish 
children  altogether  too  highly  ;  the  second  is,  that 
education  should  also  be  adaptation  ;  that  is,  in  the 
great  majority  of  cases,  the  preparation  and  training 
of  children  for  their  positions  in  after  life. 

The  present  idea  appears  to  be  that  children's 
minds  should  be  made  not  only  repositaries  of 
universal  information,  but  should  also  be  trained  to 
a  degree  of  mental  efficiency  that  is  only  attained  in 
the  grand  climacteric  of  life.  The  question  really  is, 
whether  the  child's  mind  is  to  be  made  the  storehouse, 
like  a  doll's  shop,  full  of  all  small  but  pretty  things  ; 


96  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

or  whether  the  tastes  and  talents  of  the  child  shall 
be  cultivated  towards  something  higher  to  be 
acquired  in  after  life.  This  latter  is  our  opinion  ; 
and  that  is  the  reason  we  insist  so  strongly  on  the 
right  of  allowing  some  originality  or  initiative  in  the 
selection  of  subjects  by  teachers  or  pupils. 

A  simple  example  will  suffice  to  show  how  in  one 
department  alone  immense  trouble  is  taken  in  one 
manner  of  handling  a  very  common  subject  which 
practically  is  of  no  utility  whatever  in  after  life, 
except  to  a  chosen  few  ;  and  no  trouble  whatever  is 
taken  in  teaching  the  same  subject  in  that  manner, 
and  under  that  aspect,  when  it  might  be  universally 
profitable. 

How  many  children  in  any  National  School  in 
Ireland  will  be  called  upon  in  their  after  lives  to  read 
aloud  either  to  an  individual  or  some  select  gathering  ? 
How  many  will  become  professional  elocutionists  ? 
One  boy  out  of  five  hundred  will  be  a  clergyman, 
and  must  read  distinctly  and  with  a  certain  grace. 
One  girl  out  of  ten  thousand  may  be  a  companion 
to  a  lady,  who  may  require  her  to  read  for  her  at 
night,  or  during  illness.  The  remaining  legions  will 
never,  as  a  rule,  be  called  upon  to  read  distinctly, 
pronounce  correctly,  or  understand  the  proper 
emphasis  of  words  or  phrases.  Yet,  what  time, 
what  labour,  what  pains  are  expended  on  an  accom- 
plishment which  will  seldom  or  never  be  requisitioned 
in  after  life.  Let  it  be  remembered  that  we  are  not 
making  light  of  the  accomplishment.  It  is  a  very 
beautiful  one  ;  but  we  are  speaking  now  of  educational 
methods  in  their  application  to  the  utilities  of  after 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  97 

life  ;  and  there,  in  the  vast  multitude  of  cases,  the 
accomplishment  is  practically  useless.  On  the  other 
hand,  reading  in  the  sense  of  creating  a  passion  for 
reading  and  a  knowledge  of  what  ought  to  be  read,  is 
never  taught.  The  minds  of  young  lads  and  young 
maidens  of  sixteen  and  seventeen  are  fed  with  the 
crumbs  and  pills  of  scrappy  literature — elegant 
extracts,  bits  of  poetry,  dissertations  on  political 
economy,  etc.,  in  which,  because  they  are  task-work, 
the  children  can  take  no  interest  whatsoever.  The 
beauties  of  English  literature,  the  vast  treasures  that 
have  been  accumulated  for  centuries  by  the  rich  and 
prolific  authorship  of  great  and  enlightened  men  ; 
the  hoard  of  precious  thoughts  that  lie  hidden  there 
beneath  the  covers  of  books  which  modern  compe- 
tition has  made  available  for  the  slenderest  purse — 
all  are  unknown  and  concealed  from  the  eager  and 
inquiring  spirits,  who  then  go  out  into  the  world  to 
feed  their  minds  on  the  only  pabulum  of  which  they 
have  ever  heard — the  garbage  of  London  flimsies, 
or  the  poison  of  party  political  organs,  where  there 
is  neither  "  truth,  justice,  or  judgment,"  A  taste 
for  reading — I  mean  reading  anything  wholesome  or 
elevating — is  almost  unknown  in  this  country.  A 
young  Englishman  or  a  young  Scotchman  will  be 
found  to  have  a  pretty  fair  idea  of  the  English 
Classics — a  pretty  fair  idea  of  what  books  are  worth 
reading,  and  what  books  are  worthless.  And,  con- 
sidering the  fact  that  really  half  the  joy  and  pleasure 
of  most  lives  is  to  be  found  in  books,  is  it  not  pitiable 
that  our  children's  minds  should  be  so  starved  that, 
in  after  life,  they  cannot  distinguish  food  from  poison 
H 


98  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

— the  great  thoughts  that  elevate  and  refine  from  the 
pitiable  trivialities  that  weaken  the  intellect,  lower  the 
standards  of  ethical  and  moral  worth,  and  create  an 
effeminate  and  thoughtless  people,  swayed  by  passion, 
and  regardless,  because  ignorant  of,  the  higher 
principles  of  reason  and  public  morality. 

This  is  only  one  instance  of  the  irrational  manner 
in  which  the  minds  of  our  children  are  formed.  How 
this  may  be  remedied  I  shall  point  out  when  treating 
of  Intermediate  Education.  A  few  brief  suggestions 
on  the  general  question  must  suffice  here. 

And  first,  with  regard  to  the  personnel  and  the 
training  of  teachers.  I  doubt  if  the  educationists  of 
Ireland  have  ever  realised  the  dignity  and  importance 
of  the  office  of  teacher.  They  are  so  accustomed  to 
consider  teaching  as  a  mere  means  of  livelihood,  and 
teachers  as  mere  Civil  Servants,  that  it  must  be 
difficult,  if  not  impossible,  for  these  latter  to  rise  to 
a  higher  conception  of  their  profession.  In  fact,  it 
is  only  once  or  twice  in  a  generation  that  some 
profound  and  reverent  thinker  seizes  on  the  idea  that 
next  in  dignity  and  honour  after  the  sacred  profes- 
sions comes  the  very  exalted  and  honourable  vocation 
of  training  the  young  minds  of  the  country.  It  is 
difficult  to  see  why  the  profession  of  teaching  should 
be  regarded  as  less  honourable  than  the  legal  or 
medical  professions.  If  we  judge  by  its  importance, 
and  not  by  its  emoluments,  it  should  rank  far  beyond 
them.  If  we  are  to  judge  by  its  services  to  the  State, 
there  is  no  comparison.  If  we  are  to  judge  by  its 
influence  on  humanity,  it  stands  out  the  premier 
secular  profession.  Probably  it  will  take  many 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  99 

generations  to  understand  this.  But  it  should  be 
said  at  once  that  in  our  Training  Colleges,  especially 
those  under  the  management  of  religious  guides,  this 
view  of  the  sacredness  and  solemnity  of  the  teaching 
office  should  be  kept  before  the  minds  of  the  pupils, 
in  season  and  out  of  season.  They  have  got  to  deal, 
not  with  human  decomposition  and  disease,  not  with 
human  crime  and  folly  and  dishonesty,  not  with 
mechanical  contrivances  and  dull,  inert  matter  ;  but 
with  human  souls,  which  are  placed  in  their  hands 
for  formation  ;  and  which  receive  at  their  hands 
that  bias  towards  good  or  evil  that  must  influence  all 
their  after  lives,  and  make  them  a  burden  or  a  curse, 
or  a  blessing  and  a  help,  towards  the  entire  com- 
munity. 

Hence  I  am  of  opinion  that,  at  once,  the  material 
interests  of  the  teachers,  their  salaries  and  pensions, 
should  be  placed  in  such  a  position  of  adequacy  and 
proportion  that  would  liberate  the  minds  of  teachers 
from  all  anxiety  about  their  futures,  and  leave  them 
absolutely  free  to  devote  themselves  to  the  more 
spiritual  side  of  their  exalted  calling.  I  do  not  think, 
therefore,  that  the  salary  of  a  teacher  should  be  made 
dependent  on  the  size  of  his  school,  or  the  number 
of  his  pupils.  For  thence  arises  the  deadly  temptation 
of  regarding  himself  as  a  mere  bird-of-passage,  who 
has  not,  and  never  can,  have  an  interest  in  his  pupils  ; 
but  is  ever  looking  out  in  the  daily  paper  for  an 
advertisement  for  principal  in  some  more  populous 
place,  whence  again  he  is  to  emigrate  when  the 
opportunity  offers.  On  the  other  hand,  reason, 
justice,  public  opinion,  and  common  sense  demand 


ioo  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

that  when  a  teacher  has  honestly  and  conscientiously 
devoted  his  life  to  the  services  of  the  State,  he  should 
be  protected  by  the  State  by  adequate  pensions 
from  any  hardship  of  poverty  or  sickness,  when 
incapacitated  from  work  by  old  age  or  infirmity. 

With  regard  to  the  time  devoted  to  education  in 
Ireland,  we  find  that  200  days  is  the  minimum  exacted 
by  the  National  Board.  That  is  to  say,  the  working 
days  in  our  schools  are  little  more  than  half  the  days 
of  the  year.  Setting  aside  Sundays  and  holidays, 
there  should  be  306  working  days  at  least ;  and 
allowing  the  40  days,  which  is  the  maximum  of 
vacation  allowed  by  the  Board,  there  should  be  266 
working  days  in  the  year.  Yet  a  minimum  of  200 
days  is  all  that  is  required  from  teachers  or  pupils. 
And  each  working  day  means  but  four  hours.  Now 
considering  the  multiplicity  of  subjects  required  by 
the  Board,  and  the  very  limited  time  that  is  imperative 
and  obligatory  on  the  teachers,  it  follows  that  only 
the  most  superficial  education  can  be  imparted  to 
the  children  of  the  country.  Add  to  this  the  number 
of  days  that  are  lost  by  individual  pupils,  who  are 
absent  through  sickness,  epidemic  or  otherwise  ;  by 
agricultural  requirements,  and  through  the  thousand 
and  one  excuses  that  are  made  by  negligent  and 
ignorant  parents,  and  it  will  be  seen  how  impossible 
it  is  to  create  in  Ireland  a  body  of  youths  of  both 
sexes,  who  may  bejsaid^to1)  leave^school  even  fairly 
equipped  for^.  the  ^responsibilities  of  life.  There 
seems  to  be  no  reason  why  (except  in  the  case  of 
infants)  the  school  hours  should  not  be  extended 
to  five  ;  there  is  no  reason  why,  as  in  former  times, 
Saturdays  should  not  be  half-holidays ;  there  is  no 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  101 

reason  why  a  uniform  standard  of  vacation — allowing 
a  fortnight  at  Christmas,  ten  days  at  Easter,  and  four 
weeks  in  summer — should  not  be  rigidly  maintained.1 

The  night-extension  schools  was  an  admirable  idea. 
It  failed  ;  and  it  failed  because  the  youth  of  the 
country  were  not  already  prepared  by  the  day-schools 
to  recommence  their  education.  They  were  never 
taught  that  education  meant  anything  but  task-work, 
without  design  or  object  but  to  help  the  teacher  to 
live  ;  and  they  had  no  notion  of  commencing  such 
task- work  again,  when  tired  and  weary  after  the  manual 
labour  of  the  day. 

With  regard  to  the  programmes  of  primary  educa- 
tion, let  it  be  again  insisted  upon  that  the  systems 
should  not  be  allowed  to  overlap  each  other,  but 
that  each,  primary,  intermediate,  and  university, 
should  be  kept  rigidly  within  its  own  limits.  Hence, 
what  are  called  "  accomplishments,"  the  frills  and 
decorations  of  education,  should  be  absolutely 
excluded  from  primary  education,  for  the  object  of 
primary  education  is  not  to  discover  talent,  not  to  help 
on  a  favoured  few,  not  to  create  reputations  for  clever 
teachers  or  pupils  ;  but  to  extend  the  blessings  of  an 
elementary  training  amongst  the  vast  masses  of  the 
population.  To  raise  these  masses  up  from  their 
frightful  ignorance  in  which  they  now  spend  their 
lives  ;  to  introduce  into  their  homes  something  of 
the  "  sweetness  and  light "  of  modern  civilisation  ; 
to  show  them,  the  poorest  of  the  poor,  and  the 
humblest  of  the  humble,  that  human  life  has  higher 
issues  than  are  involved  in  mere  drudgery  for  daily 

1  In  Germany,  by  Act  of  Parliament,  the  Schools  throughout 
the  Empire  open  and  close  simultaneously. 


102  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

bread  ;  and,  in  a  practical  sense,  to  show  them  how 
to  avail  of  the  vast  utilities  that  lie  beneath  their 
hands,  and  which  only  a  fairly  educated  people  can 
adequately  develop-- this  is  the  sole  object  of  primary 
education  in  Ireland.  It  may  be  fairly  said  that 
90  per  cent,  of  the  children  frequenting  our  schools 
will  have  to  earn  their  bread  by  manual  labour.  It 
would  seem  reasonable  then,  that  whilst  technical 
education  should  hold  a  primary  place,  everything 
that  savours  of  mere  "  accomplishments,"  or  that 
belongs  to  a  higher  and  secondary  course,  should  be 
rigidly  explained.  Let  us  now  see  how  the  pro- 
gramme for  National  Schools  meets  these  demands. 
The  entire  programme  in  an  ordinary  girl's  school 
embraces  the  following  subjects  : — 

Reading,  Geography  : — 

Writing,  Local, 

Composition,  Physical, 

Dictation,  Mathematical, 

Arithmetic : —  Laundry, 

Mental,  Knitting, 

Written,  Grammar, 

Cookery,  Parsing, 

Irish,  Analysis, 

History,  Tonic  Sol-Fa, 

Sewing,  Staff  Notation, 

Crochet,  Kindergarten, 

Drawing  : —  Object  Lesson, 

Geometrical,  Hand  and  Eye  Training, 

Freehand,  Drill, 

Scale,  Fancy-work, 
Religious  Instruction. 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  103 

This  is  an  extensive  programme  for  two  hundred 
days  at  four  hours  a  day,  and  one  wonders  whether 
it  is  possible  for  the  pupils  to  obtain  more  than  the 
merest  superficial  and  elementary  knowledge  of  these 
many  subjects. 

As  mere  "  accomplishments,"  such  subjects  as 
Freehand,  Geometrical  and  Scale  Drawing,  Analysis 
(which  is  only  fit  for  University  students),  Tonic 
Sol-Fa,  Staff-Notation,  Fancy-work,  Mathematical 
and  Physical  Geography,  might  be  struck  out  at  once. 
Imagine  a  class  of  grown  girls,  staring  at  a  blackboard 
crowded  with  geometrical  figures,  and  knowing  all 
the  time  that  in  a  few  weeks  they  will  be  milking 
cows  and  washing  clothes  !  Or  a  class  struggling 
through  the  intricacies  of  Tonic  Sol-Fa,  when  we 
know  that  every  girl  there  will  discard  all  that  in  a 
few  weeks,  and  pick  up  the  latest  music-hall  song 
from  London  !  And  imagine  little  children  in  a 
fourth  standard  puzzling  their  poor  brains  over 
subject,  predicate,  qualifying  predicates  and  objects, 
when  we  have  known  young  philosophers  in  the 
higher  colleges  torturing  their  intellects  about  such 
things. 

Surely,  so  far  as  mere  literary  training  is  concerned, 
it  should  be  quite  enough  for  working  boys  and  girls 
to  know  how  to  read  and  what  to  read ;  to  write  a 
decent  legible  hand  ;  to  compose  an  interesting  and 
grammatical  letter ;  to  speak  distinctly  and  clearly 
without  mouthing,  mumbling,  or  slang  ;  to  know  how 
to  tot  up  figures  and  keep  accounts,  and  understand 
the  intricacies  of  buying  and  selling  ;  for  boys,  some 
technical  training  should  be  made  indispensable, 


104  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

and  for  girls,  cooking  and  laundry ;    and  for  both, 
some  elementary  knowledge  of  hygeine. 

It  seems  incredible,  but  it  is  a  fact,  that  the  ordinary 
people  who  form  the  bulk  of  our  population  do  no; 
know,  have  not  even  the  faintest  idea,  of  how  their 
bodies  are  constructed,  what  are  the  organs  of  the 
body,  and  how  placed  ;  what  are  the  natures  of 
specific  diseases,  how  they  are  contracted,  how  they 
may  be  prevented,  or  cured.  Many  children  have 
the  most  fantastic  notions  of  the  organs  of  the  body 
and  their  location  ;  whilst  the  processes  of  circula- 
tion, respiration,  and  digestion  are  sealed  mysteries 
to  them.  Most  of  the  diseases  of  middle  life  are  the 
results  of  the  indiscretions  of  youth,  and  many  of 
these  indiscretions  are  the  results  of  ignorance  as 
well  as  misdirected  passion.  I  once  heard  a  young 
man  who,  in  the  very  springtime  and  promise  of  a 
useful  and  even  distinguished  life,  was  suddenly 
stricken  by  an  hereditary  malady,  curse  bitterly  the 
parents  who  had  brought  him  into  the  world.  How 
many  young  men  and  women  have  reason  to  resent 
bitterly,  the  culpable  neglect  of  parents  and  teachers 
who,  through  false  shame,  or  more  often  through 
indifference,  allowed  these  young  and  unprotected 
creatures  to  enter  upon  the  solemn  duties  of  life 
without  a  word  that  could  guard  them  from  bodily 
disease,  or  spiritual  corruption  !  Surely,  one  of  the 
very  first  things  that  should  be  taught  the  young  of 
both  sexes  is  to  protect  the  temples  of  their  bodies, 
and  save  themselves  from  the  years  of  agony  and  the 
premature  deaths  that  are  the  result  of  the  neglect 
or  the  indifference  of  their  inexperienced  years.  A 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  105 

good  deal  of  attention  is  now  given  in  some  schools 
to  the  care  of  the  teeth  and  the  eyes,  and  the  hair  ; 
and  some  progress  has  been  made.  But  there  are 
deeper  and  more  radical  problems  which  ought  to 
be  faced.  I  have  heard  that  in  some  high-class 
Protestant  institutions  the  matrons  pay  enormous 
attention  to  the  physiological  development  of  their 
pupils  ;  and  when  leaving  school,  young  ladies  are 
carefully  instructed  as  to  how  they  are  to  maintain 
their  physical  health,  as  well  as  to  protect  themselves 
against  dangers  that  may  arise  from  social  corruption. 
Would  that  this  system  were  extended  to  our  primary 
schools  ;  and  that  our  young  boys  and  girls,  who  are 
flung  into  the  very  teeth  of  temptation,  might  be 
taught  how  to  safeguard  health  and  virtue  together. 
I  regard,  then,  instruction  in  elementary  physiology 
and  elementary  pathology  as  absolutely  necessary  in 
our  primary  schools.  And  for  girls,  a  knowledge  of 
the  science  of  nursing  should  be  made  equally  indis- 
pensable. Nursing  of  infants  and  of  the  sick  is  the 
natural  duty  and  calling  of  young  girls.  Apart  from 
argument,  the  eagerness  and  zeal  with  which  the 
profession  of  nursing  has  been  taken  up  of  late  years 
by  hundreds  of  young  ladies  throughout  the  land,  is  a 
proof  of  this.  If  there  were  not  some  natural  instinct, 
some  divinely-planted  calling  in  this  direction,  these 
ladies,  many  of  whom  have  been  delicately  reared, 
could  never  face  the  hardships  and  the  painful 
surroundings  which  are  inseparable  from  the  sick- 
room. This  instinct  should  be  fostered  and  en- 
couraged in  our  young  girls,  so  that  in  their  own 
homes  and  families  they  may  be  able  at  any  time  to 


io6  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

render  their  parents  or  their  brothers  and  sisters 
such  help  as  can  only  come  from  a  trained  and 
experienced  hand.  Practical  education  of  this  kind 
would  make  our  young  people  more  studious  about 
themselves,  more  intelligent  helpers  to  others,  than 
if  they  could  draw  circles  with  the  genius  of  a  Giotto, 
or  could  analyse  the  longest  sentence  in  Ruskin. 
And  I  have  but  faintly  understood  the  teaching  of 
this  artist  and  philosopher,  if  these  are  not  also  his 
ideas.  Just  now,  too,  an  opportunity  is  afforded  by 
the  establishment  in  many  districts  in  the  country 
of  the  Victoria  Jubilee  Nurses.  The  local  committees 
where  these  nurses  are  placed  find  it  extremely 
difficult  to  collect  the  requisite  funds  for  the  main- 
tenance of  the  nurse  and  the  appliances  she  requires 
for  the  homes  of  the  sick.  A  small  fee  given  by  the 
National  Board  to  these  ladies  for  special  lectures 
on  Hygiene  in  the  schools  of  their  districts  would 
materially  help  the  local  committees,  and  advance 
the  cause  of  education. 

Finally,  there  just  now  arises  a  temptation  that 
must  be  promptly  met.  The  Irish  people  are  par- 
ticularly prone  to  be  caught  by  catch- words,  which 
are  passed  on  from  mouth  to  mouth,  carrying  no 
sense,  but  like  a  Tale  of  little  meaning,  though  the 
words  be  strong.  One  of  these  catch-words  is  just  now 
flying  from  lip  to  lip  in  connection  with  university 
scholarships.  We  hear  a  great  deal  about  "  the 
poor  man's  son,"  and  the  necessity  of  giving  clever 
boys  a  chance  of  developing  undoubted  talents  in 
the  halls  of  some  university.  It  is  a  specious  cry 
because  it  holds  an  elemental  truth— that  it  is  a  de- 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  107 

ordination  in  Nature  to  have  splendid  talents  allowed 
to  run  to  waste  ;  and  to  see  brave  young  geniuses, 
who  might  be  Newtons  or  Lavaters,  condemned  for 
life  to  the  spade  and  mattock.  But  the  temptation 
lies  in  this — that  ambitious  parents,  confident  of 
their  children's  ability,  or  ambitious  teachers, 
anxious  for  the  honour  of  their  schools,  might  be 
induced  to  demand  and  give  special  time  and  attention 
to  some  favoured  few,  to  the  detriment  of  the  many. 
If  a  teacher  thinks  he  has  discovered  a  particularly 
clever  lad,  who  will  probably  take  a  scholarship,  and 
if  he  is  willing  to  devote  special  time  to  his  develop- 
ment, by  all  means  let  him  do  so ;  but  it  must  be 
outside  school-hours.  It  would  be  a  crime  to  take 
away  from  ninety  pupils  the  teacher's  care  and 
attention  for  the  purpose  of  developing  one  case  of 
talent.  For,  again  let  us  repeat,  and  it  cannot  be 
repeated  too  often,  the  crying  evil  of  our  country 
and  our  time  is  the  lack  of  ordinary  decent  education 
amongst  the  masses  of  the  people  ;  and  that  the 
object  of  the  National  and  other  systems  of  primary 
education  is  not  to  discover  or  develop  the  genius  of 
one  pupil,  but  to  diffuse  throughout  the  entire 
community  a  sound  elementary  education  that  will 
qualify  them  to  act  the  part  of  intelligent  and 
responsible  citizens.  How  necessary  this  is  in  the 
rapid  developments  through  which  the  country  is 
now  passing  should  be  evident  to  the  most  super- 
ficial thinker.  For  good  or  ill,  the  processes  of 
successive  Reform  Bills  have  eventuated  in  manhood 
suffrage.  Every  individual,  therefore,  is  part  and 
parcel  of  the  administration  of  the  country.  To 


io8  THE  LITERARY  LIFE  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

commit  that  administration  into  the  hands  of  an 
unthinking,  unlettered,  and,  therefore,  irresponsible 
population  would  be  to  pledge  the  country  to 
disaster.  Yet  this  is  what  we  have  to  face,  unless 
some  revolutionary  methods  be  adopted  which  will 
bring  the  means  of  education  within  the  power  of 
every  citizen,  and  the  blessings  of  a  liberal  education 
into  the  homes  of  the  humblest  cotter  or  labourer. 


THE    IRISH    PRIESTHOOD 
AND    POLITICS 

VI. 

The  present  condition  of  politics  in  Ireland  raises 
anew  the  question,  what  exactly  are  the  views  enter- 
tained by  the  vast  majority  of  Irish  priests  on  the 
present  crisis,  and  what  are  the  habitual  relations 
between  the  Irish  priesthood  and  the  Government 
of  the  country.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  the  Govern- 
ment, faithful  to  cherished  traditions,  regard  the  vast 
body  of  Irish  priests  with  dislike,  suspicion,  and  fear  ; 
and  the  English  journals,  which  interpret  English 
Tory  opinion,  indulge  in  hysterical  alternatives  of 
contemptuous  hatred  and  pitiful  appeals,  grounded, 
of  course,  on  exalted  principles  of  justice  and  morality. 

It  has  passed  into  a  truism  in  Irish  politics,  modified 
a  little  in  recent  years,  that  Englishmen  cannot  under- 
stand our  countrymen — their  wishes,  their  hopes, 
their  ambitions.  If  this  be  true  of  the  Irish  as  a  whole, 
it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  opinions  and 
practices  of  the  Irish  Roman  Catholic  clergy  must 
be  doubly  mysterious  to  them.  That  they  still  remain 
the  principal  factor  in  Irish  politics  is  certain.  That 
the  opinions  of  certain  dignitaries  and  certain  priests 
are  also  defined  and  declared  is  also  certain.  But 
what  are  the  opinions  of  the  hundreds  of  Iriih  priests 

109 


i  io  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

who  never  speak  in  Press  or  on  platform  ?  And  what 
is  the  meaning  of  the  attitude  of  silent  watchfulness 
which  they  assume  ? 

It  has  been  remarked  that  the  Irish  character  is  so 
sensitive,  unsettled,  and  impulsive  that  it  changes 
periodically,  vibrating  to  new  ideas,  new  emotions, 
so  long  as  their  influence  continues.  Whether  this 
be  philosophically  correct  we  know  not ;  but  it  is 
certain  that  the  present  century  has  beheld  three 
generations  of  Irish  priests,  specifically  distinct  in 
feeling,  character,  modes  of  thought ;  and  that  these 
changes  have  been  effected  by  circumstances,  and  by 
the  education  which  men  in  public  life  insensibly 
receive  from  the  events  which  are  passing  around 
them.  In  the  closing  years  of  the  last  Century  the 
young  Irish  Levite  was  compelled  by  penal  laws  to 
steal  to  France  or  Spain  for  the  education  denied 
him  at  home.  He  returned  with  all  the  polish  and 
suavity  of  Continental  life,  engrafted  on  the  pure 
and  noble,  yet  turbulent  elements  of  character  he 
had  inherited  from  his  race.  He  reverenced  his 
countrymen  for  their  marvellous  fidelity  to  the 
principles  of  faith  ;  but,  somehow,  his  spirit  was 
weakened  and  broken.  Still  patriotic,  he  had  neither 
the  taste  nor  ability  to  initiate,  or  push  to  any  issue, 
a  great  political  movement.  He  was  friendly  with 
the  gentry  and  the  Protestant  clergy  ;  would  not 
recognise  any  natural  antagonism  between  the  racial 
characteristics  of  Celt  and  Saxon  ;  and  was  scarcely 
a  believer  in  the  possibility  that  Ireland  might  yet 
be  a  Nation.  Maynooth  was  built ;  the  Emancipation 
Act  was  passed,  and  forth  from  the  halls  of  the 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  in 

Government  Seminary,  built  specially  for  the  promo- 
tion of  loyalty,  came  another  class,  no  more  like  the 
priest  from  Louvain  or  Salamanca  than  an  English 
parson  is  like  a  mediaeval  friar.  Less  refined,  but 
more  solid,  knowing  no  language  but  their  own 
native  Gaelic  and  the  tongue  of  the  stranger  ;  but 
firmly  grounded  in  the  theology  of  Aquinas,  and 
widely  acquainted  with  the  religion  and  political 
history  of  their  Country  and  Church  ;  heartily  loving 
their  own  people,  and  heartily  hating  the  Government 
and  the  "  landlord  garrison " ;  they  might  have 
changed  the  whole  history  of  Ireland  were  there 
one  spirit  amongst  them  bold  and  original  enough 
to  shape  a  policy,  and  show  them  how  to  pursue  it. 
But  years  were  wasted,  and  spirit  and  energy  thrown 
away  in  the  agitation  for  repeal.  Then  the  great 
mind  that  held  all  the  nation  in  hand  passed  away, 
and  the  stormy  excitement  of  1848-49,  from  famine 
and  rebellion,  was  succeeded  by  a  long  period  of 
apathy  and  repose. 

The  second  period  is  rich  in  eloquence  and  poetry  ; 
and  possibly  the  names  of  MacHale,  Cahill,  and 
Doyle  are  amongst  the  immortals  ;  but  it  is  singularly 
barren  of  any  political  fruit.  No  great  measure  was 
suggested  to  Parliament  by  the  Irish  priesthood. 
No  Bill,  ameliorative  of  the  condition  of  the  Irish 
people,  was  passed  by  the  British  Parliament  during 
the  long  term  of  years  that  elapsed  between  1829 
and  1870. 

Meanwhile  a  gradual  change  was  creeping  over 
the  Alma  Mater  of  the  Irish  priesthood.  Eager  and 
inquiring  intellects  were  growing  impatient  of  a 


112  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

curriculum  of  studies  that  was  limited  to  Theology 
and  Ecclesiastical  History.  The  class  business  which 
satisfied  their  conscience  and  the  professor  was  easily 
mastered,  the  hours  of  study  were  long — six  hours 
in  class-halls  or  in  their  private  rooms.  The  young 
clerical  student  is  no  dreamer.  He  could  not  spend 
all  this  time  decorating  the  naked  whitewash  of  his 
cell  with  fancy  portraits,  or  admiring  the  stately  elms 
which  stretched  in  parallel  lines  before  him  to  the 
horizon.  He  must  have  some  mental  pabulum 
different  from  the  scholastic  disquisitions  of  his 
leather-bound,  musty  folios.  During  his  Logic 
Course,  he  had  got  a  glimpse  of  a  strange  new  world, 
peopled  with  poets  and  philosophers,  and  the  music 
of  the  former  haunted  him,  and  the  splendid  conjec- 
tures of  the  latter  fascinated  him.  He  knew  of  course 
it  was  all  visionary.  Here  was  the  solid  earth  beneath 
his  feet.  Prayer  and  not  problems  would  keep  him 
from  sin. 

I  think  it  was  on  the  25th  August,  1869,  I  passed 
through  the  Sphinx-guarded  gates  of  Maynooth 
College,  and  stood  near  what  was  then  the  Senior 
Chapel,  and  saw,  with  a  certain  melancholy  feeling, 
the  old  keep  of  the  Geraldine  Castle  lighted  up  by 
the  yellow  rays  of  the  sinking  sun.  I  remember  well 
that  the  impression  made  upon  me  by  Maynooth 
College  then,  and  afterwards,  when  I  saw  its  long, 
stone  corridors,  its  immense  bare  stony  halls,  the 
huge  massive  tables,  etc.,  was  one  of  rude,  Cyclopean 
strength,  without  one  single  aspect  or  feature  of 
refinement.  So  too  with  its  studies.  Relentless 
logic,  with  its  formidable  chevaux-de-frise  of  syllogisms, 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  113 

propositions,  scholia ;  metaphysics,  sublime,  but 
hardened  into  slabs  of  theories,  congealed  in  mediaeval 
Latin  ;  Physics,  embracing  a  course  that  would  have 
appalled  a  young  Newton  or  Kepler  ;  and  then  the 
vast  shadow  of  four  years'  Divinity  towering  above 
and  over-shadowing  all ! 

The  Graces  were  nowhere  !  Even  in  the  English 
Literature  or  Belles-Lettres  class,  as  it  was  called, 
the  course  seemed  to  be  limited  to  hard  grinding 
Grammar,  and  nothing  more.  During  the  first 
semestre,  a  few  lectures  were  given  on  literature. 
All  that  I  can  ever  remember  of  that  period  were 
the  words  "  Lake  Poets,"  which  the  good  professor 
was  for  ever  repeating. 

After  Christmas,  however,  there  was  a  change  ; 
rather  a  momentous  one  for  some,  at  least.  Father 
O'Rourke,  a  very  gentle,  polished  man,  had  to  leave 
College,  and  go  abroad  in  delicate  health  ;  and  his 
chair  was  taken  by  a  young  priest,  just  then  finishing 
his  third  and  last  year  in  the  Dunboyne  House. 
This  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable,  if  not  one  of 
the  most  distinguished,  students  that  ever  passed 
through  Maynooth.  It  shows  the  passing  nature  of 
all  things,  that  one,  who  was  such  a  celebrity  in  his 
own  time,  should  be  now  almost  forgotten.  The 
students  of  the  present  day  have  never  heard  of  his 
name  ;  and  yet  his  classmates,  many  of  whom  are 
still  living,  and  some  of  whom  are  occupying  the 
highest  positions  in  the  Irish  Church,  speak  of  him, 
of  his  intellectual  power,  his  imperious  ways  and 
address,  his  talent  for  unwearied  work,  as  something 
phenomenal  in  a  student.  The  only  parallel  I  have 
ever  seen  to  the  brilliant  career  and  subsequent  tragic 
i 


n4  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

failure  of  this  young  priest  was  in  the  case  of  William 
Sutherland,  the  acknowledged  leader  and  princeps 
in  that  brilliant  group  at  Oxford,  which  numbered 
A.  Henry  Hallam,  the  Tennysons,  Manning,  Ward, 
Froude,  Monckton,  Mimes,  etc.,  amongst  its  members, 
In  Maynooth  he  speedily  established  a  reputation, 
which  had  just  reached  its  zenith  when  I  sat  beneath 
his  pulpit,  close  to  the  wall  at  the  left  hand  side  in 
the  Logic  Hall,  near  the  Junior  Chapel. 

He  was  a  tall,  splendidly-formed  man,  with  a  cast 
of  features  distinctively  Roman.  One  or  two  photo- 
graphs remain  of  him  in  the  albums  of  friends.  The 
face  with  the  stern  brow,  the  lock  of  hair  falling  over 
it  in  studied  affectation,  the  curved  lips,  the  firm, 
broad  nose,  is  the  face  of  a  lost  archangel.  His  career 
was  tragical ;  one  other  instance  of  genius  misplaced, 
and,  therefore,  hurled  to  prompt  and  inevitable  ruin. 

To  us,  young  hero-worshippers,  sick  and  tired  of 
logic-chopping,  and  the  awful  dulness  of  the  morning 
classes,  he  came  as  a  herald  of  light  and  leading. 
Swiftly  he  opened  up  to  our  wondering  eyes  the  vast 
treasures  of  European  and,  particularly,  of  English 
literature.  He  was  a  trained  elocutionist ;  and  it  was 
a  pleasure  to  hear  him  read  either  one  of  his  own 
compositions  or  some  masterpiece  of  prose  or  poetry 
from  the  great  classic  authors.  From  him  I  first 
heard  the  names  of  Carlyle,  Tennyson,  and  Brown- 
ing ;  and  I  never  rested  until  their  books  were  in 
my  hands. 

Before  Christmas  I  remember  having,  in  the  usual 
course  of  things,  recited  publicly  The  Downfall  of 
Poland.  Then  one  night  in  the  Lent  of  the  year  1870, 
I  was  marked  for  another  recitation.  I  had  been  filled 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  115 

and  saturated  with  the  poetry  of  1848,  and  I  had 
committed  to  memory  many  of  its  stirring  pieces. 
In  the  innocence  and  inexperience  of  youth,  I  selected 
this  evening  the  most  revolutionary  ode  of  that 
stirring  epoch  ;  and  quite  ignorant  or  forgetful  of 
its  inappropriateness  within  the  walls  of  Maynooth, 
I  thundered  out  (it  is  worth  repeating  here) : 

THE  YEAR  OF  REVOLUTIONS 


"  Lift  up  your  pale  faces,  ye  children  of  sorrow  ! 

The  night  passes  on  to  a  glorious  to-morrow  ; 

Hark  !     Heard  you  not  sounding  glad  Liberty's  paean 

From   the  Alps  to  the  Isles  of  the  tideless  ^Egean  ? 

And  the  rhythmical  march  of  the  gathering  nations, 

And  the  crashing  of  thrones  'neath  their  fierce  exul- 
tations, 

And  the  cries  of  humanity  cleaving  the  ether, 

And  the  songs  of  the  conquering  arising  together. 

God,  Liberty,  Truth  !      How  they  burn  heart  and 
brain  ! 

Those  words  shall  they  burn,  shall  they  waken  in 
vain  ? 

II 

"  No  !     Soul  answers  Soul,  steel  clashes  on  steel ; 
And  land  wakens  land  with  a  grand  thunder-peal. 
Shall  we,  O  my  brothers,  but  weep,  pray  and  groan, 
When  France  reads  her  rights  by  the  flames  of  a 

Throne  ? 

Shall  we  fail  and  falter  to  join  the  grand  chorus, 
When  Europe  has  trod  the  dark  pathway  before  us  ? 


ii6  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

No  !    Courage,  and  we,  too,  will  trample  them  down, 
Those  minions  of  power,  those  serfs  of  a  crown  ; 
Ay,  courage,  but  courage,  if  once  to  the  winds 
You  fling  freedom's  banners,  no  tyranny  binds. 

Ill 

"  At  the  voice  of  the  people  the  weak  symbols  fall, 
And  humanity  marches  o'er  purple  and  pall  ; 
O'er  sceptre  and  crown  with  a  noble  disdain, 
For  the  symbol  must  fall,  and  Humanity  reign. 
On,  on,  in  your  masses,  dense,  resolute,  strong, 
To  war  against  treason,  oppression,  and  wrong. 
On,  on,  with  your  leaders,  and  Him  we  adore  most, 
Who  strikes  with  the  bravest,  and  leads  with  the  fore- 
most, 

Who  brings  the  proud  light  of  a  name  great  in  story 
To  light  us  to  danger ;  unconquered,  to  glory. 

IV 

"  With  faith,  like  the  Hebrews,  we'll  stem  the  Red 

Sea, 

God,  smite  down  the  Pharaohs,  our  hope  is  in  Thee. 
Be  it  blood  of  the  tyrant,  or  blood  of  the  slave, 
We'll  cross  it  to  freedom,  or  find  there  a  grave. 
Lo,  a  throne  for  each  worker,  a  crown  for  each  brow, 
The  palm  for  each  martyr  who  dies  for  us  now  ! 
Spite  the  flash  of  their  muskets,  the  roar  of  their 

cannon, 

The  assassins  of  freedom  shall  lower  their  pennon  ; 
For  the  will  of  a  nation,  what  foe  dare  withstand  ? 
Then,  patriots,  heroes,  strike  !  God  for  our  Land  ! " 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  117 

Maynooth  had  just  been  disendowed  ;  and  the 
place  was  no  longer  a  Government  institution.  The 
mutton  which  the  students  ate  was  no  longer  the 
Queen's  mutton.  But  you  cannot  exorcise  the  tra- 
ditional spirit  of  a  place  in  a  day.  The  government 
of  the  House  at  that  time  was  distinctively  conservative, 
if  not  anti-national ;  and  it  was  certainly  rash  for  a 
young  student  to  select  such  a  fierce,  revolutionary 
ode  for  recitation  in  a  college  where  there  was  a 
traditional  dread  of  such  things. 

Many  readers  will  recognise  in  these  lines  the 
famous  ode  for  which,  and  for  a  correspondingly 
inflammatory  article,  the  editors  of  the  Nation  were 
arrested.  And  they  will  recall  the  dramatic  scene, 
when  the  Crown  Prosecutor,  at  the  time,  scornfully 
declared  that  the  writer  was  hiding  under  the  anonym, 
"  Speranza,"  and  afraid  to  reveal  his  name  ;  and  how 
a  lady  stood  up  in  the  gallery  over  his  head,  and 
declared  that  she  was  the  authoress.  This  was  Lady 
Wilde,  wife  of  Sir  William  Wilde,  famous  oculist  and 
antiquarian,  and  mother  of  another  unhappy  Irish 
genius — Oscar.  In  my  youth,  her  poems  were  on 
all  our  lips  ;  and  glorious  and  spirited  poems  they 
were,  sending  the  blood  bounding  under  the  trumpet- 
call,  to  do  something  for  Ireland. 

Although  I  acted  rashly  enough,  however,  on  that 
occasion  in  selecting  these  burning  words  in  such  a 
staid  and  solemn  place,  I  was  pretty  safe,  because  at 
that  very  time  our  lecturer  was  writing  some  similar 
verses  for  the  Dublin  Nation,  under  the  nom-de- 
plume,  "  Fion-Barra."  There  was  one  poem  which 
I  have  never  seen  since,  which  seemed  to  express 


ii8  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

the  intense  pride  and  defiance  of  the  writer.  I  can 
only  remember  the  words  : — 

"  Black  does  it  look,  my  future, 

Masters,  that  see  so  far  ? 
But  I'll  make  each  span  of  its  blackness 
The  throne  of  a  stately  star." 

And  :— 

"  Fear  was  made  for  the  hearts  of  hares  ; 
It  was  never  made  for  mine." 

I  wonder  did  he  foresee  the  stormy  scenes  that  were 
to  be  crammed  into  his  little  life  ;  and  the  fearful 
cataclysm  which  was  to  close  it  ? 

One  of  his  poems,  however,  I  well  remember,  for 
I  committed  it  to  memory  at  the  time,  and  I  have 
never  lost  hold  of  it.  It  is  called  : 

VINEGAR  HILL 


"  Ah,  dear  Father  Tom,  how  you're  panting  !     I'm 

sorry  I  hurried  you  so  ; 
But  the  heart  was  red-hot  in  my  bosom,  to  see  th« 

old  hill  ere  I  go  ; 
To  stand  on  its  top,  as  I'm  standing,  the  town  huddled 

there  at  my  feet, 
Some  eyes,  I  dare  say,  in  its  bosom  that  looked  on 

the  rebel's  retreat. 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  119 

II 

"  Very  dark  is  the  green  of  the  grass  here,  and  sullen 

it  shows  to  the  brutes  ; 
But  we  know  what   'tis  drinking  for  ever  beneath 

from  the  sod  where  it  shoots  ; 
We  know,  but  we're  not  going  to  mention  the  flesh, 

and  the  blood,  and  the  bones, 
Hidden  here  since  our  Wicklow  was  widowed,  and 

Wexford  was  glutted  with  groans. 

Ill 

"  You  mind,  Father  Tom,  how  around  us,  the  land 

stretches  flatly  for  miles  ? 
You  can  see  every  road  winding  whitely,  no  rocks, 

and  no  sheltered  defiles. 
Oh  God  !    how  six  brave  rifled  cannon,  crammed 

home  with  the  vengeance  of  years, 
Had  shattered  the  skulls  of  the  Saxon,  till  Ireland 

rang  loud  with  her  cheers  ! 

IV 

"  But  you  see  the  poor  fellows  had  pitch-forks,  and 

pikes,  and  a  pistol  or  two  ; 
And  friends  from  afar  had  not  risen  to  teach  their 

rude  hands  what  to  do  ; 
So  they  came  here  to  die,  dimly  dreaming  that  the 

will  was  as  good  as  the  deed  ; 
And  that  Ireland  would  honour  her  children,  who 

knew  not  to  fight,  but  to  bleed, 


120  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

V 

"  And  the  poor  fellows,  too,  were  half-starving  ;  they 

tell  of  a  thousand  or  more 
Whose  food  for  a  week  was  raw  turnips,  raw  turnips 

and  soft  at  the  core — 
Bad  stuff  for  a  stomach  that's  stationed  to  stand 

against  bayonet  and  ball ; 
Bad  stuff  when  the  heart  must  be  steady,  and  the 

feet  rooted  fast  like  a  wall. 

VI 

"  And  yet  on  this  hill-top  bare-breasted,  and  starving 

and  hungry  and  weak, 
They  taught  the  brave   truth   that   our  babies   are 

learning  to  think  and  to  speak — 
That  the  race  is  not  all  to  the  swift ;  nor  the  victory 

all  for  the  strong  ; 
But  the  great  law  of  God  and  of  Nature  is  war  to 

the  knife  against  wrong. 

VII 

"  Never  mind  !  Let's  go  down  from  the  hill-top  ; 

we've  seen  what  we  wanted  to  see  ; 
The  rank  grass  that  feeds  on  our  fathers  ;  the  fields 

where  their  feet  used  to  be  ; 
Poor  fellows  !     We  don't  call  them  heroes  ;  the  land 

of  their  love  wasn't  Greece, 
But  we,  you  and  I,  give  them  pardon  ;  and  we  pray 

that  their  souls  may  have  peace." 


THE  DAWN  OF  THE  CENTURY1 

VII 


I  propose  this  evening  to  put  before  you  a  limited, 
but  let  me  hope,  a  clear,  well-defined  view  of  that 
outer  intellectual  world,  in  which  you  will  soon  be 
called  to  take  your  place,  and  an  important  one  ;  and 
with  that  view  to  stimulate  you  to  more  zealous  and 
earnest  preparation  for  the  part  you  will  have  to 
perform.  For  it  is  sometimes  wise  for  us  all  to  pause 
and  think  and  look  around  us  ;  to  wait  till  the  smoke 
clears  away  from  the  field  of  battle,  that  we  may  the 
better  see  the  alignments  of  the  enemy,  arrange  our 
own  forces,  and  make  such  dispositions  that  we  may 
gain  at  least  an  advantage  ;  for  the  ultimate  victory, 
I  presume,  is  not  for  us,  nor  for  any  soldiers  of  Christ, 
until  the  day  when  the  great  Captain  Himself  shall 
come.  And  measuring  as  I  do  the  vast  energies  that 
lie  hidden,  and  as  yet  bounded  and  locked,  in  the 
assemblage  which  I  have  the  honour  to  address 
to-night,  I  feel  a  certain  sense  of  responsibility — so 
great,  that  were  it  not  for  the  deference  I  owed  to  the 
courteous  invitation  of  your  late  President,  repeated 

1  An  Address  delivered  to  the  Maynooth  Students  in  th«  Aula 
Maxima  of  the  College,  December  ist,  1903. 

131 


122  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

by  your  present  Superior  ;  and  at  the  same  time  an 
ambition,  I  hope  a  lawful  one,  of  addressing  at  least 
once  in  my  life  the  young  minds  and  hearts  that 
are  to  control  the  future  destinies  of  the  Church  in 
Ireland,  I  should  have  hesitated  about  assuming  a 
duty,  which  might  be  left  in  more  capable  and  zealous 
hands.  Nevertheless,  I  may  be  able  to  give  you  a 
glance  into  the  outer  world,  its  forces,  its  movements, 
its  processes  of  thought,  which  may  awaken  new  ideas, 
and  perhaps  larger  conceptions  of  your  vocation  ;  and 
with  these,  fresh  determinations  that  in  the  serious 
and  solemn  duties  that  lie  before  the  Catholic  priest- 
hood in  our  time,  you  will  at  least  acquit  yourselves 
like  men. 

All  life  is  a  process.  Things  do  not  hurry,  neither 
do  they  pause.  But,  from  time  to  time,  there  is  just 
a  rush  as  of  forces  breaking  their  bounds  ;  and  then 
again  a  lull  in  human  affairs — a  little  breathing  time 
for  poor  humanity,  wherein  it  stops  suddenly,  and  as 
if,  through  sheer  exhaustion,  refuses  to  be  swept  along 
on  the  eternal  currents  of  thought.  Just  such  a 
breathing  time  we  have  in  the  intellectual  world  of 
to-day.  There  is  no  great  "  movement,"  as  it  is 
called,  going  on  in  the  world  outside.  The  chief 
revolutions  of  the  nineteenth  century  ran  through 
their  little  cycles  and  ceased.  And  we,  who  have 
seen  them,  and  been  blinded  by  their  dust,  and 
stunned  by  their  noise,  now  look  back  with  a  certain 
kind  of  wondering  humiliation,  that  we  could  ever 
have  allowed  ourselves  to  be  even  temporarily  dis- 
turbed by  such  feeble  and  transitory  things.  And  if 
we  needed  a  proof  of  that  Divine  arrangement  in  the 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  123 

economy  of  life,  by  which  truth  is  safeguarded  in 
the  custody  of  an  unerring  Church,  surely  we  may 
find  it  in  the  swift  judgment  that  Time  has  passed 
upon  the  insolent  assumptions  of  the  century  that 
has  just  expired.  Not  that  these  systems  and  move- 
ments are  forgotten.  Nay,  it  is  only  now  that  they 
are  being  studied  in  detail.  There  is  a  curious  leisure 
and  repose  in  the  thought  of  the  world  of  to-day. 
It  is  not  fretted  by  any  particular  system  of  philo- 
sophy. Over  there,  on  the  sands  of  Brighton,  Herbert 
Spencer  is  rolled  up  and  down  in  a  bath-chair, 
speaking  to  no  one,  looking  out  with  dimmed  eyes  on 
the  unfathomable  sea.  He  has  left  a  fair  amount  of 
printed  formulas  which  no  one  reads.  In  that  highest 
domain  of  philosophic  thought,  I  know  no  other  name 
that  men  would  care  to  remember.  Science  has 
passed  from  great  principles  into  mere  experiment. 
Instead  of  being  mistress  of  great  minds,  she  has 
become  an  artificer  of  toys  for  men's  hands  and 
human  convenience.  The  discovery  of  the  new 
metals,  "  uranium  "  and  "  radium,"  is  heralded  as  a 
revolution  in  Science.  But  we  are  too  much  accus- 
tomed to  these  revolutions  to  heed  them.  Darwin 
and  Owen,  Huxley  and  Tyndall  have  vanished,  and 
Edison  and  Marconi  remain.  Great  principles,  for 
right  or  wrong,  are  no  longer  laid  down,  fought  for, 
assailed,  accepted,  or  rejected.  The  dog  listening 
for  his  dead  master's  voice  in  the  phonograph,  and 
the  group  around  the  Marconi  wires  in  the  saloon  of 
a  Transatlantic  steamer,  eager  to  catch  the  gossip  of 
two  continents,  are  types  of  the  present.  The  great 
voice  of  poetry  has  died  down  into  a  few  artificial 


124  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

notes,  that  have  neither  the  vigour  nor  the  secret  of 
inspiration.  All  the  chief  singers  of  the  Victorian 
era,  except  one,  are  hushed  in  death.  Swinburne 
lives,  but  is  silent.  The  Poet-Laureate  seems  to  have 
already  passed  out  of  public  consideration.  There 
are  but  two  names  before  the  world  to-day,  and  they 
are  called  by  the  damning  term  of  '*  minor  poets," — 
Stephen  Phillips  and  William  Watson.  There  is  one 
great  poet — a  Catholic — Francis  Thompson  ;  but  he, 
having  given  to  men  of  all  he  was  worth,  and  they 
were  unworthy,  has  flung  his  two  volumes,  with  a 
kind  of  disdain,  at  the  world's  feet,  and  passed,  like 
a  wise  man,  into  the  peace  and  seclusion  of  a  Fran- 
ciscan monastery.  Mr.  Lecky,  representing  history, 
has  just  passed  away  ;  and  amongst  the  vast  crowd 
of  writers,  who  come  under  the  general  designation 
of  "  Men  of  Letters,"  and  the  great  majority  of  whom 
are  mere  magazine  writers  with  but  ephemeral  repu- 
tations, there  seems  but  one  who  will  conquer  the 
neglect  of  time,  and  the  indifference  and  coquetry 
of  fame — and  that,  too,  is  a  Catholic — Dr.  William 
Barry.  Ireland  alone  appears  to  be  alive  amidst  the 
general  torpor.  The  breath  of  life  that  seems  to  have 
abandoned  a  dead  world  is  passing  through  her  veins. 

What,  then,  has  the  "  Dawn  of  the  Century  "  to 
show  ?  What  are  the  manifestations  that  we  have 
to  study  ;  and  how  are  we  to  forecast  the  future  from 
the  symptoms  of  the  present  ? 

Travellers  who  have  ventured  to  climb  the  steep 
ascent  and  dread  escarpments  of  Vesuvius,  tell  us  of 
the  feeling  of  utter  solitude  and  desolation  they  ex- 
perience when  they  have  reached  half-way  up  the 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  125 

mountain.  They  walk  ankle-deep  in  hot  ashes  ;  the 
half-cooled  streams  of  lava,  ridged  and  smooth,  are 
here  and  there  on  every  side  ;  the  air  is  dark  and 
sulphurous,  and  difficult  to  breathe  ;  the  guides  are 
timid  and  uncertain  about  proceeding  further.  All 
around  is  horror  upon  horror  ;  and  their  hearts  are 
chilled  with  a  sense  of  loneliness  and  fear.  Yet, 
looking  upward  and  onward,  there  is  something  more 
terrible.  The  cloud  that  ever  hangs  above  the  crater 
is  lurid  from  the  sulphurous  fires  beneath,  and  now 
and  again  the  mountain  is  shaken  by  the  deep  re- 
verberations of  the  terrible  forces  that  are  trying  to 
free  themselves  there  beneath  the  surface,  and  high 
into  the  air  is  flung  a  burning  shower  of  ashes  and 
scoriae  and  red-hot  stones,  and  new  streams  of  molten 
lava  are  poured  down  the  mountain  side.  Here  is 
desolation ;  but  there  is  death.  The  frightened 
travellers  dare  not  look  upwards  ;  they  look  around 
them  and  behind  them,  and  ask  many  questions  of 
their  guides  as  to  how  best  they  may  retrace  their 
steps.  Such  is  the  attitude  of  the  intellectual  world 
of  to-day.  All  around  it  is  desolation — the  desolation 
of  abandoned  spirits  on  the  lonely  heights.  It  dares 
not  look  forward.  There  is  but  death.  Its  guides — 
the  prophets  of  agnosticism — are  dumb.  All  it  can 
do  is  to  stop  and  look  back,  and  try  to  see  if  haply 
the  past  can  be  any  guide  to  the  future.  Its  attitude 
then  to-day  is  essentially  retrospective.  It  is  wearied 
and  tired  and  frightened.  Nothing  remains  but  to 
study  the  past,  and  see  is  there  a  gleam  of  hope,  a 
guidance  of  life  for  the  enigmatic  future  that  lies 
before  it.  Let  us,  for  our  own  wise  ends,  follow  the 


iz6  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

example,  looking  through  its  eyes,  and  see  what  were 
the  forces  that  guided  the  world  into  its  present 
perilous  condition,  and  leave  it  there  with  the  ashes 
of  dead  faiths  about  its  feet. 

The  great  intellectual  forces  of  the  nineteenth 
century  resolved  themselves  into  two  movements, 
known  to  historians  as  the  transcendental  and  em- 
pirical. The  former  sprang  from  the  writings  of 
Rousseau  ;  affected,  even  created,  the  French  Revo- 
lution, broadened  out  and  developed  into  the  great 
German  systems  of  philosophy,  passed  into  England 
and  coloured  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge, 
generated  in  France  a  whole  tribe  of  soliloquists  and 
dreamers,  and  finally  was  caught  up  and  crystallised 
in  the  half-prophetic,  half-delirious  preachings  and 
rantings  of  Carlyle.  Thence  it  crossed  the  Atlantic, 
inspired  and  originated  New  England  Transcenden- 
talism through  the  Concord  School  of  philosophy,  of 
which  Emerson,  a  pupil  of  Carlyle 's,  was  chief  prophet. 
The  essential  characteristics  of  this  school  were 
vagueness  and  abstraction.  It  took  its  very  name 
from  the  fancy  that  this  new  knowledge  transcended 
all  experience,  and  was  quite  independent  of  reason, 
authority,  the  testimony  of  the  senses,  or  the  testi- 
mony of  mankind.  Its  knowledge  was  intuitive  and 
abstract.  It  despised  definition.  It  taught  the  swift 
and  immediate  grasping  of  a  something  unrevealed 
and  indefinite,  which  had  hitherto  eluded  all  human 
effort  to  compass,  embrace,  or  define.  Hence  its 
terminology  was  vague.  It  spoke  freely  of  the  Infinite, 
the  Infinite  Nothing,  the  Infinite  Essence  of  Things. 
Then  the  Germans  invented  a  more  prosaic  name — 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  127 

the  thing  that  is  NOT-I.  Coleridge  made  sub-divisions 
and  introduced  the  now  well-worn  words,  subjective 
and  objective  knowledge.  Carlyle  spoke  of  Eternal 
Verities,  the  Immensities,  the  Infinite,  the  Eternal 
Silences,  etc.  Emerson  wrote  of  it  as  the  Over-Soul, 
the  Spirit  of  the  Universe.  How  far  all  this  differed 
from  pure  Pantheism  it  were  difficult  to  say  ;  but  it 
permeated  all  literature — history  was  studied  by  its 
light,  poetry  was  inspired  by  it,  it  ran  through  all 
fiction,  became  a  religious  creed,  until  men  every- 
where sought  the  Secret  of  Being  in  the  question  put 
by  Coleridge  : — 

"  And  what  if  all  of  animated  nature 
Be  but  organic  harps  diversely  framed, 
That  tremble  into  thought,  as  o'er  them  sweeps, 
Plastic  and  vast,  one  intellectual  breeze, 
At  once  the  Soul  of  each,  and  God  of  all  ?" 

Then,  somewhere  about  the  middle  of  the  century, 
men  began  to  ask  whether  there  was  any  rule  of 
conduct,  any  code  of  ethics,  under  all  this  cloudy 
verbiage.  Men  are  known  by  their  works.  Systems 
are  judged  by  their  results.  What  have  you  to  show 
for  all  this  transcendentalism  ?  How  does  it  affect 
human  life,  human  relations,  human  progress  ?  How 
do  such  doctrines  influence  the  political  common- 
wealth by  educating  statesmen  into  higher  ideas  of 
political  advancement  and  social  amelioration  ?  What 
do  your  prophets  say  ?  And  lo  !  it  began  to  be 
whispered  that  the  sentimental  Rousseau  did  actually 
send  his  children  away  to  be  shut  up  in  an  orphan 


i28  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

asylum  ;  and  that  Carlyle,  interpreting  the  Infinite 
Verities  as  merely  brute,  blind  force,  did  defend  the 
man  who  broke  his  word  of  honour  hundreds  of 
times,  and  carried  fire  and  sword  into  every  valley 
and  hamlet  and  town  in  Ireland  ;  and  honoured  the 
Governor  who  scourged  with  whips  of  wire  the  naked 
slaves  of  Jamaica;  and  wrote  his  ''Iliad  in  a  nutshell" 
to  condemn  the  Northern  States  of  America  for  the 
emancipation  of  the  Negro.  And  yet,  it  would  be 
unjust  not  to  say  that  Transcendentalism  did  raise 
men's  minds  above  a  sordid  level.  If  its  dogmas 
were  vague,  at  least  it  appealed  to  the  higher  instincts 
and  emotions.  It  certainly  rated  spiritual  and  mental 
life  above  the  adjuncts  of  mere  material  existence. 
It  took  men  away  from  mammon-worship  and  self- 
seeking  ;  and  by  insisting  on  the  paramount  import- 
ance of  Duty,  and  the  vast  responsibilities  of  our 
short  but  sublime  existence  on  this  planet,  it  gave 
the  young  particularly  higher  conceptions  of  their 
calling,  and  put  many  on  the  high  road  towards  nobler 
and  sweeter  lives.  In  Fichte's  Nature  of  the  Scholar  ; 
in  Carlyle's  Past  and  Present ;  and  in  Emerson's 
Address  to  the  American  Scholar,  you  will  find  all  this 
exemplified.  Yet,  men  were  not  satisfied.  All  these 
nebulous  hypotheses  about  Over-Souls  and  Immen- 
sities could  not  satisfy  the  imperious  demand  of  the 
ever-impatient  mind  of  man  for  something  more 
structural  and  solid.  The  eternal  question  arose  as 
to  the  First  Principles  ;  and  reason  and  logic  alike 
declared  the  fundamental  truth  :  No  Dogma  ;  No 
Ethics  !  A  rule  of  life  for  men  and  nations  must  be 
founded  on  something  more  solid  than  mere  verbal 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  129 

abstractions.  Yet,  all  this  time,  de  Maistre  in  France, 
Newman  in  England,  were  thundering  this  very 
truth  into  the  ears  of  the  multitude  ;  but  the  multi- 
tude looked  everywhere  for  illumination,  except  from 
the  central  sun. 

Suddenly,  a  momentous  change  swept  over  human 
thought.  With  one  bound  it  leaped  to  the  opposite 
extreme.  "We  are  tired  of  abstractions,"  it  cried. 
"  We  want  facts  !  No  more  intuition,  but  demonstra- 
tion !  Reason  shall  be  omnipotent.  There  is  Nature 
under  our  eyes  and  hands.  We  will  question  her  ; 
and  she  will  answer.  She  will  give  up  her  secrets  to 
us,  and  we  will  build  our  systems  upon  them.  We 
will  tear  open  the  bowels  of  the  mountains,  and  read 
their  signs,  as  the  haruspices  of  old  read  the  entrails 
of  the  sacred,  sacrificial  fowl,  and  augured  well  or  ill 
from  the  revelation.  We  will  pull  down  the  stars 
from  the  skies,  weigh  them,  and  test  their  constituents. 
We  will  seek  the  elemental  forces  of  Nature,  and  there 
we  shall  find  the  elemental  truths.  We  will  pry  into 
all  things  and  everywhere,  dredge  the  seas,  sweep 
the  rivers,  drag  fossils  out  of  mammoth  caves,  con- 
struct the  forms  of  dead  leviathans  from  one  bone, 
examine  the  dust  of  stars  in  shattered  aerolites,  and 
the  structure  of  the  animal  creation  in  the  spawn  of 
frogs  by  the  wayside  pool,  or  the  tadpoles  in  the 
month  of  May.  And  we  shall  find  that  all  things  are 
made  for  man  ;  and  that  man  alone  is  the  Omnipotent 
and  Divine."  Poets  took  up  the  paean  of  the  New 
Era,  arid  sang  it  in  verse  that  is  more  immortal  than 
the  cause.  Tennyson  laid  aside  his  Higher  Pantheism, 
and  all  the  idealizations  of  youth  to  chaunt  the  praises 
K 


130  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

of  the  new  pioneers  of  humanity.  And  the  world 
took  up  the  cry.  Through  the  steamship,  the  tele- 
graph, distance  was  annihilated.  Mankind  was 
shaken  by  new  emotions.  The  world  was  moved 
from  its  solid  basis,  and  began  to  shift  its  centres 
of  population.  Old  countries  were  dispeopled, 
and  new  states  formed,  out  of  a  curious  congeries 
of  mixed  and  very  dissimilar  nationalities.  The 
agricultural  masses  began  to  sweep  into  the  towns, 
which  rapidly  grew  into  cities  under  the  increase  of 
population.  Vast  buildings  were  flung  into  the  sky, 
rilled  with  all  modern  appliances  and  conveniences  ; 
and  in  the  exultation  of  the  moment,  men  looked 
back  upon  the  past  with  a  kind  of  pitying  ridicule. 
"  We  are  done  with  cloud-building  and  abstractions 
for  ever,"  they  said.  "  We  have  facts  instead  of  faith. 
This  is  our  earth,  our  world  ;  and  we  want  no  other, 
The  ultimate  triumph  of  humanity  is  at  hand  !  " 

And  then  ? — well,  then,  at  the  very  height  of  all 
this  pride,  men  suddenly  discovered  that  under  all 
this  huge  mechanism  and  masonry  they  had  actually 
driven  out  the  soul  of  man  ;  and  they  began  to  ask 
themselves  :  Is  this  the  result  ?  And  is  it  a  result 
that  we  can  boast  of  ?  Empiricism  has  triumphed. 
But  is  the  building  of  sky-scrapers,  the  slaughter  of 
so  many  million  of  hogs,  the  stretching  of  wires 
across  our  cities,  our  underground  railways,  our  sea- 
tunnels — is  all  this  a  substitute  or  compensation  for 
all  the  ideals  we  have  sacrificed  and  lost  ?  And  when 
men  began  to  see  that  beneath  all  this  material 
splendour  every  noble  quality  that  distinguishes 
man  was  utterly  extinguished  ;  when  they  saw  the 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  131 

horrors  of  their  midnight  streets,  the  masses  festering 
in  city  slums,  the  great  gulf  broadening  between  the 
rich  and  poor,  selfishness,  greed,  Mammon-worship, 
the  extinction  of  the  weak,  the  sovereignty  of  the 
strong,  the  cruelty,  the  brutality,  that  are  ever  latent 
in  the  human  heart,  developed  by  the  new  civilization, 
they  began  to  shrink  back  appalled  from  their  own 
creation,  and  to  think  that  after  all,  "  man  liveth  not 
by  bread  alone."  And  if  for  a  moment  they  hesitated 
about  this  new  belief  in  the  terrible  destructiveness 
of  a  Godless  science,  there  came,  ever  and  anon,  the 
deep  mutterings  of  a  new  terror,  the  very  offspring 
of  the  science  they  had  worshipped — the  spectre  of 
Socialism  and  Anarchy.  "  Yes,"  cried  the  latter,  "  we, 
too,  are  the  children  of  science.  Nay  more,  we  are 
its  servants  and  ministers  ;  we  feed  its  furnaces  with 
shades  over  our  eyes  to  protect  them  from  the  blinding 
glare  ;  we  work  ten  hours  a  day,  stripped  to  the 
waist,  and  buckets  of  water  have  to  be  flung  over  us 
from  time  to  time  to  cool  our  burning  flesh  ;  and  you, 
dressed  in  your  silks,  with  your  Turkish  baths  and 
servants  to  fan  you  from  the  slightest  breath  of  a 
summer  wind  !  Who  hath  decreed  this  inequality  ? 
It  is  our  labour  and  sweat  that  have  built  up  your 
eighty  millions  of  dollars,  and  our  guerdon  is 
barely  a  dollar  a  day.  You  roll  by  in  your  Pullman, 
whilst  we  keep  the  road  clear  for  you  under  a 
tropical  sun.  Your  children  are  absolutely  weakened 
with  excessive  luxury  ;  ours  are  starving,  body  and 
soul,  in  the  slums.  And  after  all,  where  is  the  differ- 
ence between  you  and  us  ?  You  doubt  it.  We'll 
prove  it.  You  are  the  same  clay  as  we.  Mark  you, 


132  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

this  dagger  will  pierce  your  flesh,  this  tiny  bullet  will 
extinguish  your  life.  You  have  whipped  us  with 
scorpions.  But  we  hereby  order  that  you  shall  sleep 
beneath  the  crossed  bayonets  of  your  soldiers  ;  that 
your  mightiest  Emperor  and  Czar  shall  never  enter 
Rome  ;  and  you  must  draw  a  cordon  of  soldiers 
around  the  quays  of  New  York  to  save  your 
President's  life  from  the  pious  vengeance  of  our 
emissaries."  So  says,  in  unmistakable  language,  the 
latest  creation  of  Empiricism,  and  the  poets  take  up 
the  cry  ;  and  the  prophetic  voice  that  chaunted  the 
glories  of  science  in  "  Locksley  Hall  "  grows  hoarse 
in  its  wailings  over  a  lost  world  in  the  "  Locksley  Hall 
Sixty  Years  After."  Yes  !  Science  hath  wrested  all 
its  secrets  from  Nature  but  one,  the  great  secret, 
which  she  never  reveals  but  to  the  children  of  faith. 
The  attitude  of  the  intellectual  world  to-day,  then, 
is  an  attitude  of  waiting  ;  and  in  waiting,  an  attitude 
of  indifferentism.  Not  indifference,  because  it  is 
acutely  aware  of  its  critical  condition,  and  looks 
forward  with  anxious  eyes.  Nay,  from  time  to  time, 
it  turns  around  and  gazes  towards  the  Eternal  City 
and  the  Supreme  Pontiff ;  and  in  view  of  the  power- 
lessness  of  states  and  governments  to  conquer  the 
anarchy  that  seethes  in  every  Empire,  it  is  watching 
the  Church  with  a  "perhaps"  upon  its  lips.  Great 
Kings  have  already  gone  thither,  and  their  royal 
pilgrimages  were  universally  interpreted  as  an  ad- 
mission that  Rome  alone  could  battle  with  the  new 
forces  which  irreligion  had  let  loose  on  the  world  ; 
and  the  peoples,  following  their  royal  masters,  and 
in  view  not  only  of  shattered  faith,  but  of  shattered 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  133 

beliefs  in  human  systems,  that  promised  so  much 
and  performed  so  little,  are  beginning  to  ask  if,  after 
all  that  has  been  said  and  suggested,  Rome  alone 
held  the  secret  of  the  stability  of  Empires,  and  the 
safety  and  happiness  of  the  individual  in  those 
doctrines  and  precepts  which  she  preaches  so  un- 
compromisingly to  an  unbelieving  and  scoffing  world. 
Across  the  Atlantic,  where  she  has  more  freedom  than 
in  older  and  more  conservative  states,  she  is  making 
rapid  progress.  There,  too,  the  distinction  of  classes 
is  more  sharply  drawn,  because  there  wealth  and 
poverty  reach  greater  extremes  than  in  older  countries. 
And  there  is  wanting  in  America  that  strong  conserva- 
tism, born  of  traditional  feudalism,  that  is  saving,  in 
some  measure,  the  thrones  of  Europe.  And  the  non- 
Catholic  world  of  America  is  beginning  to  perceive 
that  should  the  forces  of  Anarchy  and  Socialism  ever 
break  bounds  and  attempt  revolution,  there  is  no 
moral  force  to  stop  the  outbreak  but  the  Catholic 
Church.  Hence,  statesmen  and  Presidents  court 
friendship,  if  not  alliance,  with  the  American  hier- 
archy ;  and  the  advance  of  education,  wherein  our 
Catholic  schools  take  a  leading  place,  is  gradually 
acting  as  a  solvent  on  ancient  prejudices  brought 
from  the  mother  country,  and  fostered  by  designing 
and  militant  controversialists. 

But  you  will  reasonably  ask,  what  has  all  this  to  do 
with  us  who  are  destined  to  work  within  the  four  seas 
of  Ireland  ?  Tell  us  something  about  our  own  country, 
its  wants,  its  aspirations,  its  capabilities,  its  dangers. 
We  pity  the  world,  stranded  there  on  the  mountain 
heights,  unable J:o  go  backward,  afraid  to  go  forward, 


134  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

its  guides  dumb  and  impotent  under  the  spell  of 
modern  agnosticism.  But  we  are  more  deeply  con- 
cerned about  our  own  people  with  whom  all  our  best 
interests  are  identified.  Well,  you  have  a  right  to 
ask  the  question,  although,  as  I  shall  show  you,  you 
have  need,  too,  to  be  much  interested  in  the  attitude 
of  the  intellectual  world  beyond  the  seas. 

I  have  said,  that  the  breath  of  a  new  life  has  been 
breathed  on  our  old  land.  The  eternal  vitality  of  our 
race,  not  to  be  extinguished  by  rack  or  gibbet,  Penal 
Law  or  Grecian  gift,  has  broken  out  these  last  few 
years  in  a  vast  intellectual  revival,  the  consequences 
of  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  measure  to-day.  It 
would  seem  as  if  whilst  the  population  waned,  the 
intellectual  forces  of  the  country  became  concentred 
in  a  great  effort  towards  national  regeneration.  All 
the  best  elements  of  the  country  seem  to  unite  in  a 
forward  movement  that  promises  well  for  the  future 
of  our  country  and  our  race.  Our  poets  have  given 
up  the  ballads  and  battle-songs  which  were  so  familiar 
a  half-century  ago,  and  gone  back  to  Pre-Christian 
times  for  inspiration.  A  National  Theatre  has  been 
established  for  the  stage  reproduction  of  dramas, 
founded  on  the  epics,  or  history,  or  legends  of  the 
past ;  and  the  race  is  more  interested  with  the  wars 
of  the  Firbolgs  and  Danaans  than  with  the  struggles 
of  the  Gael  and  the  Pale.  And  the  attempt  to  save 
from  extinction  that  greatest  heirloom  of  the  race — 
our  National  language — has  eventuated  in  an  all-round 
revival  of  national  sports  and  pastimes,  music  and 
literature,  which,  to  one  who  witnessed  the  apathy 
of  a  dozen  years  ago,  must  seem  phenomenal.  Yet, 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  135 

there  is  a  discordant  and  dangerous  note  even  here. 
If  some  Hellenists  in  England  and  France  have  raised 
the  cry  :  Back  to  Greece  from  Christianity  !  Back 
to  the  beautiful  physical  life,  the  arts,  the  drama,  the 
music,  the  freedom  of  ancient  Hellas,  from  the  re- 
straints and  asceticism  of  Christianity,  there  are  not 
wanting  amongst  ourselves,  a  certain  class  of  art- 
worshippers  and  nature  -  worshippers  who  seem  to 
prefer  the  free  unlicensed  Pagan  freedom  of  our  fore- 
fathers to  the  sweeter  influences  which  Christianity 
introduced.  I  do  not  regard  this,  however,  as  a 
dangerous  symptom.  I  do  not  think  the  work  of 
St.  Patrick  and  fourteen  centuries  of  Saints  and 
Scholars  is  likely  to  be  frustrated  by  a  few  Neo- 
Pagans  and  /Esthetes  in  our  time. 

Then,  of  course,  with  the  advance  of  education,  and 
the  creation  of  the  class  of  the  "educated-unemployed," 
there  must  be  a  certain  amount  of  restlessness,  and 
chafing  under  control,  and  a  spirit  of  criticism  and 
censoriousness,  which  can  only  be  dissipated  by 
larger  educational  training,  or  the  judicious  employ- 
ment of  those  who  have  won  distinction  in  our  colleges 
and  intermediate  schools.  A  few  weeks  ago,  on  the 
occasion  of  the  apostasy  of  a  certain  realistic  novel- 
writer,  one  of  our  Irish  papers  had  the  following 
paragraph  : — 

The  personality  of  Mr.  Moore  would  not  be  worth 
even  a  contemptuous  reference,  were  it  not  that 
there  are  thousands  of  young  Irishmen  in  some  of 
our  big  cities,  whose  minds  are  being  slowly  and 
gradually,  and  very  surely,  poisoned  by  influences 
which  lead  directly  towards  the  abysmal  gulf  of 


136  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

George  Mooreism.  Speeches  have  been  delivered 
and  paragraphs  have  been  printed  quite  recently, 
which  indicate  that  the  speakers  and  writers  are 
drifting,  perhaps  imperceptibly,  but  none  the  less 
steadily,  towards  a  frame  of  mind,  doubting,  carping, 
hypercritical,  which  will  not  in  the  end  be  distinguish- 
able from  Continental  Atheism. 


And  as  if  to  emphasize  and  corroborate  these  words, 
we  had,  a  few  days  after  they  appeared,  an  expression 
of  opinion  from  the  highest  quarters  to  the  same  effect 
— that  there  were  probably  here  amongst  ourselves 
certain  thinkers,  too  small  of  stature  and  too  limited 
in  numbers  to  form  a  school,  but  whose  antipathies 
and  desires  seem  to  run  parallel  with  those  of  the 
unhappy  men  who  are  bringing  ruin  upon  Catholic 
France.  These  things  are  not  alarming,  but  significant. 
They  are  symptoms  which  we  cannot  disregard. 


Such  then  is  the  vision  of  the  world  as  it  is  shown  to 
us  here  in  the  dawn  of  our  century.  But  I  should 
not  have  travelled  one  hundred  and  eighty  miles  to 
reveal  to  you  what  might  be  unfolded  from  every 
page  of  modern  literature,  if  I  had  not  the  larger 
object  of  applying  to  your  own  needs  the  lessons  that 
may  be  derived  from  such  a  review  of  modern  fact 
and  thought,  and  of  forecasting  your  own  part  in 
their  future  developments.  In  making  such  a  prac- 
tical application,  I  should  feel  less  scrupulous  if  I 
were  speaking  to  older  heads  than  yours.  Mind  I  do 
not  say  "wiser  heads,"  for  I  am  one  of  those  who  think 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  137 

that  sometimes  the  splendid  disdain  of  youth  is  more 
than  the  cautious  and  careful  feeling  forward  of  age. 
But  I  should  feel  then  that  my  words  were  merely 
tentative  and  experimental.  But  here  I  feel  I  am 
casting  seminal  ideas  into  souls  whose  principles  have 
not  yet  hardened  in  the  mould  of  experience  ;  and 
which,  therefore,  owing  to  this  very  plasticity,  need 
to  be  formed  on  lines  that  shall  be  drawn  altogether 
right  and  fair  and  well-proportioned.  I  feel,  too, 
that,  as  time  goes  by,  each  of  you  will  be  perforce 
compelled  to  try  my  words  at  the  bar  of  experience  ; 
and  there  are  many  counsellors  there,  and  in  the 
multitude  thereof  there  is  not  much  wisdom.  Nay, 
you  will  be  tossed  hither  and  thither  by  every  wind 
of  opinion  in  your  latter  lives.  You  will  have  to  see 
principles  which  you  deemed  irrefragable,  ruthlessly 
challenged  and  set  aside  ;  and  you  will  have  to  face 
the  worst  of  all  mental  trials — the  adjustment  of  your 
conduct  to  lofty  ideals,  which,  however,  will  be 
altogether  inconsistent  with  your  interests  and  imme- 
diate happiness.  Amidst  this  eternal  fluctuation  of 
human  opinion,  and  rushing  together  of  thoughts, 
feelings,  and  principles,  chaotic  and  confusing  enough 
— one  star  shines,  ever  fixed,  immovable,  shedding 
its  soft,  lambent  light  across  your  life-way,  fixed  as 
the  Polar  Star,  and  bright  as  Phosphor — the  Star  of 
Duty.  There  is  no  drawing  the  curtains  across  its 
light,  no  seeking  to  shut  out  its  piercing  rays.  It 
will  shine  through  darkness  as  of  Erebus ;  and 
pierce  even  through  recesses  where  the  soul  seeks  to 
hide  itself  from  itself.  And  what  is  that  Duty  ? 
I  doubt  if  there  be  a  more  dramatic  scene  in  all 


138  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

human  history  than  that  which  took  place  on  a  certain 
mountain  in  Judaea  some  twenty  centuries  ago.  A 
young  man,  apparently  a  mere  carpenter's  son,  had 
just  dismissed  a  wondering,  admiring  crowd,  who  had 
began  to  speak  of  Him  as  the  "  Prophet  of  Nazareth;  " 
and  had  gathered  around  Him  a  few  of  His  disciples 
to  whom  He  had  to  say  more  solemn  and  sacred  things. 
They,  that  handful  of  men,  were  raw,  illiterate, 
unkempt,  half-naked  ;  their  hands  rough  from  toll, 
their  scanty  clothes  glistening  with  the  scales  of  the 
fish  they  had  pulled  from  the  lake  beneath  them. 
And  what  was  His  message  ?  After  quietly  setting 
aside  all  hitherto-recognised  principles  of  human 
wisdom,  He  suddenly  addressed  them  : — 

You  are  the  light  of  the  world  !  You  are  the  salt  of 
the  earth  ! 

What !  A  lot  of  half-clad,  semi-savage  Israelites — 
the  light  of  the  world  ?  Hear  it,  O  ye  sophists  over 
there  in  Athens,  listening  to  the  calm,  cultured  wisdom 
of  one  of  your  rhetoricians,  as  he  expounds  and 
develops  the  ever-new  beauties  of  the  master-minds 
of  Greece  !  And  hear  it,  O  ye  Romans,  listening  in 
your  white  togas  in  the  Forum  to  the  greatest  of  your 
orators,  and  the  most  profound  of  your  philosophers  ! 
Hear  and  wonder  at  this  sublime  audacity — a  young 
tradesman  in  one  of  your  conquered  provinces  is 
telling  a  handful  of  fishermen  that  they  are  "  the  light 
of  the  world."  Not  you  Plato,  nor  you  Socrates  ; 
not  you  Cicero  or  Seneca  ;  but  Peter,  the  fisherman, 
and  Matthew,  the  publican  ;  and  this  boy  whom 
they  call  John — these  are  the  light  of  the  world  ! 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  139 

Who  could  believe  it  ?  Well,  we,  taught  by  Revela- 
tion, by  history,  by  the  subversion  of  an  intellectual- 
ism  that  was  Pagan,  and  the  substitution  of  a  folly 
that  is  Divine— we  believe  it,  and  we  know  it. 

And  if  our  Lord  were  justified  in  pronouncing  and 
prophesying  such  a  sublime  vocation  for  His  disciples, 
am  I  not  right  in  saying  to  you,  the  future  priests  of 
Ireland  :  You  are  the  Light  of  the  World  !  You  are 
the  Salt  of  the  Earth  ?  Yes  !  the  pure  white  light 
that  strikes  here  from  Rome  is  broken  up  into  a 
hundred,  a  thousand  rays  that  penetrate  even  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth.  Maynooth  is  the  Propaganda  of 
the  West,  and  you  are  its  Apostles  !  Now  what  does 
that  connote  ? 

Although  primarily  intended  for  the  training  of 
priests  of  the  Irish  mission,  this  great  College  has 
become  of  late  years  as  much  a  Foreign  College  as 
All  Hallows — it  is,  let  me  repeat  it,  for  I  glory  in 
the  title  and  all  its  vast  significances — the  Western 
Propaganda  !  Yes  !  we  cannot  suppress  our  instincts 
— we  cannot  deny  our  vocation — we  cannot  refuse 
our  mission.  We  are  the  Apostles  of  the  world  to-day. 
Even  in  my  own  remote  village,  within  the  last  few 
months,  we  had  three  or  four  deputations  of  nuns 
from  Cape  Colony,  from  Dakota,  from  Los  Angeles, 
seeking  amongst  our  Irish  children  what  apparently 
cannot  to  be  found  elsewhere  on  this  planet—those  pure 
minds,  that  keen  intelligence,  and  that  personal  love 
of  God,  that  are  the  constituents  of  a  religious  voca- 
tion. The  same  is  true  all  over  Ireland.  And  you, 
gentlemen,  many  of  you,  may — must  go  abroad,  to 
other  countries,  and  amidst  a  people  different  from 


140  THE  LITERARY  LltfE 

your  own.  Instead  of  the  happy,  religious,  sunny 
children  of  Faith,  you  will  have  to  speak  to  the  people 
on  the  gloomy  hill-side,  their  feet  in  the  hot  ashes, 
the  desolation  of  unfaith  around  them,  and  their 
guides  as  dumb  and  panic-stricken  as  themselves. 
You  will  meet  them  everywhere.  They  will  come  to 
hear  your  sermons  in  some  English  church,  and  to 
challenge  you  about  your  faith  on  Monday  morning. 
They  will  cry  to  you  through  the  Press  ;  and  half 
insolently,  half  pleadingly,  they  will  ask  for  light. 
You  will  meet  them  at  dinner  tables  in  country 
houses,  and  they  will  ask  you,  amid  the  dinner  courses, 
strange  questions  about  modern  beliefs  or  disbeliefs. 
And  if  you  are  the  light  of  the  world  remember  the 
solemn  injunction  :  Let  your  light  shine  before  men  ! 
Now,  these  strange,  sad  people,  to  whom  you,  a 
Catholic  priest,  are  a  mysterious,  solemn,  unintelli- 
gible anachronism,  will  speak  to  you,  not  in  your 
language — the  language  of  faith,  but  in  their  own 
tongue  ;  and  that  you  must  set  yourselves  to  under- 
stand and  interpret.  If  you  care  to  influence  them 
you  must  go  over  to  their  side,  stand  on  their  platrfom, 
look  through  their  eyes.  They  know  nothing  of  you 
— your  philosophy,  your  theology  ;  but  if  you  let 
them  see  that  you  know  all  about  them,  it  gains  their 
confidence,  lessens  their  pride,  shows  them  that  you 
have  seen  all,  understand  all,  and  that  your  light  is 
not  a  shaded  lamp,  but  a  sun  that  penetrates  every 
corner  and  recess  of  the  human  heart.  Hence,  in 
pursuing  your  philosophical  or  theological  studies, 
you  need  to  have  an  objective  before  your  mind. 
Rid  yourselves  of  the  idea  that  yours  is  routine  work. 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  141 

Study  that  you  may  know,  know  that  you  may  under- 
stand, understand  that  you  may  communicate  your 
knowledge  to  others.  "  Let  your  light  shine  before 
men  !  " 

In  one  of  Rudyard  Kipling's  earliest  books  he  tells 
of  how  a  raw  regiment  of  British  troops  was  brought 
up  from  the  lowlands  to  the  Afghan  hills  to  break  up 
and  destroy  an  Afghan  horde  that  were  hidden  in  a 
gut  or  ghaut  of  the  mountains.  They  marched  gaily, 
to  the  sound  of  fife  and  drum,  into  the  valley,  de- 
ployed, advanced  in  close  formation,  saw  the  enemy 
grouped  ahead,  were  ordered  to  fire.  They  shut 
their  eyes  and  fired — a  half  ton  of  lead  into — the 
bodies  of  the  Afghans  ?  No  !  Into  the  ground  !  In 
an  instant  the  Afghans  were  upon  them,  slashing 
them,  right  and  left,  with  their  terrible  triangular 
knives,  and  in  a  moment  the  British  regiment  was 
in  full  flight,  whilst  the  Colonel  tore  his  hair  and 
cursed  freely  from  an  adjacent  height. 

Well,  you  must  not  waste  your  forces  thus  ;  but 
always  have  a  clear  and  well-defined  objective  before 
you  in  all  your  studies.  And  to-day,  as  in  the  century 
just  dead,  you  will  find  that  those  whom  you  have 
to  contend  with,  and  those  you  have  to  enlighten, 
divide  themselves  into  the  easily  recognised  classes  of 
Transcendentalists  and  Empiricists — the  mystic  and 
the  scientist,  the  vague  dreamer  of  dreams,  and  the 
hard,  unimaginative  reasoner.  And  if  it  pleases  God' 
that  abroad  you  shall  be  called  upon  to  defend  your 
faith  in  public  or  in  private,  by  sermon,  lecture,  or 
newspaper,  see  that  you  quit  yourselves  like  men ; 
and  give  honour  to  God,  your  country,  and  your 


142  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

n 

faith.  But  here  in  these  sacred  halls  your  preparation 
must  be  made.  This  is  your  gymnasium,  your 
training-ground.  And  if  you  prove  worthy  of  your- 
selves you  will  have  your  reward  even  here  below. 
That  was  a  sublime  moment  when  Ingersoll,  the 
Atheistic  lecturer,  was  suddenly  called  to  account  by 
a  young  Irish  Catholic  in  his  audience.  He  was  going 
on  gaily  demolishing  Churches  and  Revelations  and 
Christianity  when  the  young  man  shouted  :  "  What 
does  Father  Lambert  say  to  that  ?  "  And  the  hardened 
atheist  stopped  suddenly  and  after  a  long  pause 
replied  :  "  Yes,  friend,  I  admit  that  if  there  be  any 
Revelation  it  is  that  which  Father  Lambert  has  de- 
fended ;  and  if  there  be  any  Christianity,  it  is  that 
of  the  Church  he  represents  !  "  And  that  was  another 
sublime  moment  when  another  young  Irish  priest  in 
another  American  city  took  up  the  cause  of  Holy 
Church  against  six  or  seven  ministers,  and  defended 
hinmself,  week  after  week,  against  their  combined 
assault.  It  was  a  brave,  nay,  almost,  a  perilous  act. 
For  every  day  the  city  was  moved  as  at  a  Presidential 
election.  The  labourers,  at  their  dinner  hour,  cut 
short  the  time  and  rushed  the  cafes,  hotels,  and 

newspaper  offices  with  the  cry  :    "Is  Father on 

to-day  ?  "  And  when  they  found  he  was  "  on,"  one 
mounted  a  barrel  and  read  the  priest's  defence  to 
the  admiring  multitude.  And  when  at  last,  in  spite 
of  every  effort  to  compromise  and  condemn  the 
Catholic  Church  with  the  old  stock  objections  about 
Galileo,  Inquisitions,  St.  Bartholomew's  massacres, 
etc.,  attack  after  attack  was  resisted  and  beaten  back 
by  this  young  priest,  and  his  adversaries,  one  by  one, 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  143 

slunk  from  the  field,  and  one,  an  Episcopalian  minister, 
was  actually  compelled  to  close  his  church ;  then,  in 
the  moment  of  victory,  his  countrymen  gathered 
around  their  young  champion,  collected  a  sum  of 
£6,000  to  help  him  to  decorate  his  church  ;  the  tram- 
conductors  of  the  city,  Irish  to  a  man,  presented  him 
with  a  service  of  silver  plate  ;  and  even  the  Protestant 
community  honoured  his  valour,  and  the  President 
of  the  State  appointed  him  regent  of  the  State  Uni- 
versity, an  unprecedented  honour  for  a  Catholic 
priest. 

But,  with  all  that,  I  must  not  forget  that  the  great 
majority  of  you,  gentlemen,  are  destined  to  spend 
your  lives  in  the  service  of  your  own  people,  and  in 
your  native  land.  Happy  are  you  beyond  the  apostles 
of  your  race  abroad,  for  you  will  have  the  most  faithful 
and  deeply-religious  people  on  earth  to  minister  to 
— a  people  who  will  look  up  to  you  with  a  kind  of 
idolatry,  as  the  representative  of  all  they  revere  in 
time  and  eternity.  I  am  speaking  now  of  the  great 
masses  of  the  people,  especially  the  poor.  There  is 
nothing  like  them  on  the  earth.  Your  chief  work 
will  be  to  lead  them  on  to  the  higher  life  ;  and  I  am 
rather  sorry  that  this  part  of  our  ministry  is  not  so 
well  understood.  What  I  mean  is,  that  the  people 
need  only  direction,  I  mean  ascetic  direction,  to 
spring  at  once  into  the  highest  and  most  heroic 
sanctity.  And  I  earnestly  hope  that  some  at  least 
of  you,  gentlemen,  will  find  time  from  other  studies 
to  examine  the  principles  and  practices  of  ascetic 
theology,  the  direction  of  souls  into  the  higher  life, 
and  such  holy  mysticism  as  you  will  find  in  the  works 


144  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

of  St.  Teresa  or  St.  John  of  the  Cross.  This  is  the 
transcendentalism  which  the  Church  acknowledges, 
and  which  has  been  the  practice  of  all  the  saints. 

But,  as  I  warned  you  before,  you  will  have  another 
class  to  deal  with — the  semi-educated,  the  critical, 
the  censorious.  Some  of  these  will  dislike  you, 
because  their  lives  are  not  modelled  on  Christian  prin- 
ciples, and  your  life  is  a  perpetual  protest  against 
theirs.  Your  sermons,  your  life,  your  insistence  on 
the  great  Christian  Verities  fret  them  beyond  endur- 
ance, and  they  hate  you.  Odit  vos  mundus  !  There 
is  another  class,  which  is  not  irreligious,  but  which 
seems  to  blot  out  of  their  mental  horizon  any  one 
under  the  rank  of  an  Archdeacon.  These  may  be 
good  Catholics,  but  they  do  not  concern  us  here. 
They  are  not  an  appreciable  quantity,  so  far  as  we 
are  concerned.  There  is  a  third  class,  and  to  these 
I  direct  your  special  attention,  as  they  touch  closely 
on  that  intellectual,  godless  world  of  which  I  have 
already  spoken.  There  is  no  use  in  our  trying  to 
close  our  eyes  to  the  fact  that  many  of  our  young 
Catholics  have  imbibed  the  Continental  spirit,  and 
set  themselves  up  as  judges,  not  only  of  individuals, 
even  those  in  the  highest  offices  in  the  Church,  but 
even  of  the  dogmas  of  Catholic  Faith.  These  are  the 
people  who  will  tell  you  that  the  Dreyfus  case  was 
urged  on  by  the  Catholic  Bishops  of  France,  that 
persecution  of  the  Religious  Orders  to-day  is  not  the 
work  of  Combes,  but  has  arisen  from  the  jealousies 
between  the  regular  and  the  secular  clergy  in  France, 
that  the  Bishops  were  even  compelled  to  call  in  the 
aid  of  the  Government  to  save  them  from  the  en- 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  145 

croachments  of  monks  and  nuns.  The  same  class 
will  coolly  tell  you  that  all  the  evils  of  Ireland  can  be 
traced  to  the  action  of  the  Catholic  Church  ;  and  if 
you  question  them  about  their  authorities,  they  will 
quote  the  infidel  papers  of  Paris  ;  or  such  a  historian 
as  Froude.  Then  they  pass  to  dogma.  Indulgences, 
Prayers  for  the  Dead,  the  sacramentals  of  the  Church, 
the  little  devotions  of  the  faithful,  are  anathema 
maranatha  to  these  highly  cultivated  folk,  who  con- 
descend to  go  to  Mass,  and,  under  a  certain  tacit 
coercion  of  public  opinion,  to  attend  to  the  Easter 
Duty. 

With  that  class,  and,  indeed,  with  all  others,  one 
safe  principle  may  be  laid  down — that  the  Irish  priest 
must  be  in  advance  of  his  people,  educationally,  by 
at  least  fifty  years.  The  priests  have  the  lead,  and 
they  must  keep  it.  But  the  right  of  leadership,  now 
so  often  questioned,  must  be  supported  by  tangible 
and  repeated  proofs  ;  and  these  proofs  must  concern 
not  only  your  spiritual  authority,  but  your  intellectual 
superiority.  The  young  priest  who  has  lectured  on 
"  Hamlet "  in  the  Town  Hall  on  Thursday  night  is 
listened  to  with  deeper  respect  on  Sunday  morning. 
The  priest  who  conducts  a  long  and  laborious  experi- 
ment before  a  literary  and  scientific  society  in  any  of 
our  cities  is,  henceforward,  an  acknowledged  and 
unquestioned  guide  in  his  village.  And  the  priest 
who,  quietly  and  without  temper,  overthrows  one  of 
those  carping  critics  at  a  dinner-party,  may  confirm, 
without  the  possibility  of  its  being  disturbed  again, 
the  faith  of  many  who  are  present,  and  whose  beliefs, 
perhaps,  were  rudely  shaken  by  the  impertinence  of 

L 


146  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

the  shallow  criticism  to  which  they  had  just  been 
listening.  No,  in  Ireland  at  least,  gentlemen,  we 
must  not  hide  our  light  under  a  bushel.  Our  national 
Church  must  be  the  "  city  built  on  the  high  moun- 
tains." And  we  must  not  grovel,  nor  make  excuses, 
nor  apologise  for  our  existence.  We  have  the  lead, 
and  we  must  keep  it !  What  all  that  connotes  and 
signifies  I  must  leave  to  yourselves  to  imagine  and 
develop. 

But  there  is  one  thing  in  which,  above  all  others, 
we  must  keep  ahead  of  our  people — the  supreme 
matter  of  priestly  holiness.  And  this  takes  me  away 
from  your  outer  duties  to  address  yourselves.  I 
have  kept  the  good  wine  to  the  last ;  and,  alas  !  I 
have  left  you  but  little  time  to  drink  it.  But,  probably, 
these,  my  first,  will  also  be  my  last  words  to  you  ; 
and  I  desire  to  throw  into  them  all  the  emphasis  of 
which  I  am  capable.  In  after  life  you  will  increase 
your  intellectual  stores  ;  you  will  enlarge  your  in- 
tellectual horizon.  By  large  reading  and  much 
reflection  you  will  find  yourselves,  in  ten  or  twenty 
years,  in  quite  a  different  sphere  of  thought  from  that 
in  which  you  are  placed  to-day.  Your  education  will 
only  commence  the  day  you  leave  college  and  enter 
the  larger  life.  But  in  one  department  you  shall  never 
advance  or  improve — I  mean  the  department  of 
spiritual  science.  The  principles  taught  now  by 
your  professors  and  spiritual  guides  are  fixed  and 
unchangeable  ;  if  ever  you  change  or  abandon  them, 
it  will  be  to  your  temporal  detriment  and  eternal 
ruin.  What  do  I  mean  ? 

You  are  taught  now  that  on  the  day  when  the 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  147 

Pontiff  places  his  hands  on  your  heads,  and  your 
fingers  clasp  the  chalice,  you  are  raised  to  the  highest 
dignity  on  earth.  That  is  true.  You  are  taught  that 
you  are  more  than  kings  on  their  thrones,  or  ministers 
in  their  cabinets.  That  is  true.  You  are  taught  that 
you  are  more  than  the  angels  or  archangel.  That  is 
true.  Furthermore,  you  are  instructed  that  it  is  by 
no  choice  of  yours,  or  your  parents,  that  you  are  raised 
to  the  sacerdotal  dignity.  That  is  true.  For  you  are 
instructed  that  the  Divine  Master  applies  to  you  the 
words  He  applied  to  His  Apostles  :  "  You  have  not 
chosen  Me  ;  but  I  have  chosen  you."  You  are  also 
warned  that  no  sanctity,  however  great,  can  be  deemed 
commensurate  with  so  high  an  office  ;  and  that  your 
lives,  and  all  that  is  connected  with  them,  your  talents, 
abilities,  mental  and  spiritual  faculties,  are  also  placed 
in  pledge  with  Christ  for  the  fulfilment  of  your  sub- 
lime vocation.  Why  do  I  insist  on  such  patent  and 
palpable  truths  ?  Because  you  will  be  tempted  to 
deny  them.  Experience,  so  much  lauded  as  a  success- 
ful master,  is  also  a  most  dangerous  master.  It 
teaches,  we  know  ;  but  often  it  teaches  perilous  and 
subversive  doctrines.  And  the  worst  and  most  deadly 
temptation  of  your  lives  will  come  from  experience 
the  day  that,  looking  around  you  and  watching  the 
ways  and  lives  of  men,  you  will  utter  that  word  of 
the  Psalmist :  Omnis  homo  mendax !  or  the  more 
melancholy  verdict  of  St.  Paul :  "All  seek  their  own 
interests  ;  not  the  interests  of  Jesus  Christ !  "  Beware 
of  that  moment ;  for  it  is  in  that  moment  you  will  be 
tempted  to  forget,  or  deny,  the  sacred  principles  you 
have  learned  in  these  halls.  You  will  be  tempted  to 


148  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

believe  that  your  sacred  office  is  not  a  mission  and 
vocation,  but  a  mere  profession  ;  and  that  you  are 
at  liberty  to  introduce  the  language,  and  the  customs, 
and  the  principles  of  the  world  into  that  sanctuary, 
where  the  maxims  of  the  Gospel  alone  should  be 
recognised  and  accepted.  You  will  stand  for  a  moment 
half-paralysed  with  the  spectacle  of  men  rushing 
wildly  into  forbidden  paths,  and  then,  panic-stricken, 
you  will  be  tempted  to  follow  the  herd  with  its  treason- 
able cry  :  Ego  et  rex  Metis  !  If  you  harbour  that 
temptation  for  a  moment,  in  that  moment  you  have 
bartered  and  forfeited  your  birthright ;  you  have 
cancelled  the  charter  of  your  nobility  ;  you  have 
revoked  your  oath  of  ordination  ;  and  from  being  a 
miles  et  amicus  Christi  you  have  descended  to  be  the 
slave  and  sycophant  of  self. 

Hence  the  necessity  of  acquiring  here,  and  develop- 
ing hereafter,  a  certain  phase  of  character,  which 
I  can  only  designate  as  "  individualism."  You  must 
study  to  be  self-centred,  self-poised  on  the  strong 
summits  of  conscience,  not  moving  to  left  or  right 
at  every  breath  of  opinion.  This  is  quite  compatible 
with  that  modesty,  that  humility,  that  gentleness  that 
always  characterize  thoughtful  minds — minds  that 
move  on  a  high  plane,  and  that  will  not  descend  to 
the  vulgarities  or  common-places  of  ordinary  men. 
Priests  of  this  class  or  calibre  never  forget  their 
college  lessons.  But  whilst  striving  in  remote  hamlets, 
as  workhouse  chaplains,  or  even  in  the  slums  of  large 
cities,  to  develop  themselves  intellectually  by  whole- 
some and  judicious  studies,  they  are  ever  sensible  of 
the  gentle  whispers  of  their  Master,  first  heard  here, 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  149 

never  to  be  stifled  in  after  life — "  You  are  the  light  of 
the  world  !  You  are  the  salt  of  the  earth."  "  You 
have  not  chosen  Me  ;  but  I  have  chosen  you  ! "  "I 
do  not  any  longer  call  you  servant  but  friend." 
"  Filioli  mei."  Ah,  these  are  the  "  burning  and  shin- 
ing lights  "  of  the  Church  of  Christ,  within  whose  rays 
men  shelter  themselves  for  warmth  and  illumination  ; 
who  cannot  be  extinguished  in  life  by  envy  or  hatred 
or  criticism  ;  who  even  in  death  leave  behind  them 
in  memory  a  certain  twilight  or  aurora,  for  their  words 
and  works  survive  them  ;  and  many  a  soul,  recalling 
them  from  the  peace  of  eternity,  justifies  the  pre- 
sumption in  the  words  of  the  Psalmist : — 

"  Thy  Word  was  a  lamp  to  my  feet ; 
And  a  light  along  my  ways  !  " 

Here  is  what  you  have  to  strive  after  ;  here  is  what 
you  have  to  attain,  if  you  desire  to  maintain  the  tra- 
ditions of  the  Irish  Church  ;  and  to  be,  in  very  deed, 
the  leaders  of  your  people,  the  shepherds  of  your 
flock! 

And  so  I,  passing  rapidly  into  the  evening  of  life, 
say  this  farewell  word  to  you  in  the  morning  of  your 
days,  and  in  the  dawn  of  the  century,  where  your 
life-work  shall  be  placed.  The  intellectual  and 
spiritual  energies,  gathered  into  this  hall  to-night, 
must  exercise  a  tremendous  influence  in  that  future, 
when  emancipated,  they  will  have  free  play,  and  a 
boundless  sphere  of  action.  It  is  a  pathetic,  yet  con- 
soling thought  that,  when,  far  out  in  the  century, 
our  faces  shall  be  upturned  to  the  stars,  you  will  be 


150  THE  LITERARY  LIFE  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

striving  for  the  same  eternal  cause  as  that  for  which 
we  shall  have  spent  ourselves.  Nor  have  I  a  moment's 
doubt,  that  when  the  torch  falls  from  our  feeble  hands, 
you  will  take  it  up  and  carry  it  forward  through  all 
those  years  that  are  sweeping  towards  us  from  Infinity, 
and  that  come  fraught  with  such  solemn  issues  for 
the  country  we  love,  the  Faith  to  whch  we  cling,  the 
Church,  which  is  our  Mistress  and  our  Queen,  and 
Him,  who  is  our  Captain  and  our  King. 


NON-DOGMATIC  RELIGION 

VIII. 

It  has  been  well  said  that  a  new  heresy  is  to-day 
an  impossibility.  It  cannot  even  be  imagined.  The 
world  has  so  completely  passed  beyond  that  stage  of 
antagonism,  that  it  can  never  recur  to  it.  It  regards 
the  great  controversies  of  the  past,  which  we  consider 
were  Divinely-appointed  or  Divinely-permitted  trials, 
which  were  destined  to  make  compact  the  whole  body 
of  Christian  tradition,  as  childish,  because  meta- 
physical. It  stands  forth  in  all  the  bareness  of  its 
agnosticism,  naked  and  unashamed. 

It  is  an  evil  symptom  and  a  good  symptom.  Evil, 
because  it  argues,  nay,  as  we  shall  show,  professes 
a  certain  indifference  to  all  Christian  traditions  and 
beliefs.  Good,  because  it  clears  the  ground  and 
simplifies  the  issues  between  the  great  protagonist  of 
Revelation — the  Church,  and  its  traditional  and 
hereditary  antagonist,  the  world. 

Henceforth,  and  for  ever,  we  are  done  with  local 
and  partial  controversies  about  the  Invocation  of 
Saints,  the  veneration  of  relics,  the  devotion  of 
Catholics  to  our  Blessed  Lady,  the  utility  and  neces- 
sity of  Confession,  the  supreme  homage  of  the 
Sacrifice  of  the  Mass.  Much  more  may  we  regard 
as  antiquated,  and  out  of  date,  the  historical  questions 
that  agitated  past  generations.  It  is  quite  possible 

151 


152  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

that  even  yet  in  far  places  on  the  outskirts  of  civiliza- 
tion there  may  be  found  preachers  or  readers,  brought 
up  in  all  the  narrowness  of  Sunday-school  traditions, 
who  try  to  save  their  slippery  footholds  by  catching 
at  the  ancient  phantoms  of  Galileo,  and  Inquisitions, 
and  all  the  other  horrors  of  the  three-volume  novels 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  These  little  skirmishes 
must  go  on  for  a  while,  just  as  freebooting  and  guerilla 
warfare  continue  long  after  the  defeated  general  of 
a  great  army  has  handed  up  his  sword  to  the  Con- 
queror. But  in  the  great  centres  of  intellectual 
thought  in  the  world — London,  Paris,  Rome — these 
minor  issues  are  now  completely  set  aside  ;  and  the 
mighty  forces  on  both  sides  are  being  sifted  and  re- 
arranged along  the  two  great  lines  of  Faith  and  Un- 
faith,  Dogma  and  No-Dogma,  Life  as  it  presents 
itself  to  our  bare  senses,  and  Life  as  it  is  revealed  to 
us  with  all  its  vast  issues  and  tremendous  respon- 
sibilities by  Him,  Who  sitteth  above  the  stars. 

And  before  we  pass  away  to  witness  the  attitude 
the  Church  is  likely  to  assume  when  confronted  with 
the  new,  yet  already  well-organized  systems  of  un- 
belief, it  is  hardly  unworthy  of  us,  her  children,  to 
feel  a  strange  thrill  of  pride  for  her  marvellous  and 
superhuman  triumphs  over  all  the  heresies  that  have 
assailed  her  for  nineteen  hundred  years.  To  all 
human  reasoning,  and  according  to  all  human  ex- 
perience, she  should  have  gone  down  before  the 
repeated  assaults  of  heresies  that  were  based  on  human 
passion,  that  sprang  from  human  pride,  and  appealed 
to  the  instinctive  desire  of  men  to  live  untrammelled, 
both  in  intellect  and  desire,  by  any  external  and 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  153 

arbitrary  authority.  We  know  from  history  and 
personal  experience  how  passion  sways  the  heart  of 
man,  and  carries  it  into  excesses  where  it  is  unbridled 
by  reason.  Given  those  passions,  supported  by 
human  power — by  arms,  politics,  governments,  and 
the  people's  wills,  and  we  can  conjecture  what  a 
conquest  of  humanity  the  Church  has  made,  although 
unbending  in  her  eternal  teaching,  that  the  flesh  must 
yield  to  the  spirit,  and  that  all  the  interests  of  time 
and  human  things  pale  into  insignificance  before  the 
grand  and  paramount  interests  of  eternity. 

The  newest  development  of  Protestantism  (for 
Protestantism  being  negation,  finds  its  logical  outcome 
here)  is  the  denial,  not  of  one  particular  dogma  or 
article  of  belief,  but  the  denial  of  all  dogma,  and  the 
substitution  of  a  system  of  ethics,  whose  foundations 
rest  upon  Chaos.  All  this  was  to  be  foreseen,  because 
the  principle  of  Dogma  having  been  denied,  when 
the  principle  of  authority  was  set  aside,  it  naturally 
followed  that  all  certitude  would  sooner  or  later  be 
called  in  question,  and  that  that  questioning  should 
end  first  in  universal  scepticism,  then  in  blank  denial. 

Theologically  this  radical  change  from  the  Christian 
ideal  of  revealed  doctrines,  entailing  by  their  belief 
a  long  train  of  ethical  or  moral  consequences,  was 
inevitable.  The  numberless  sects,  generated  in  the 
great  Rebellion  of  Reformation,  self-contradictory  and 
mutually  repellent,  acted  as  a  solvent  of  all  belief  in 
the  minds  of  thinking  men.  It  needed  only  time  to 
make  the  world,  divorced  as  it  was  from  the  centre 
of  dogmatic  truth,  disgusted  with  the  pretensions  of 
sectaries,  who  ranged  along  the  whole  line  of  hys- 


154  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

terical  fantasies,  from  the  "  conversions  "  and  "  gift 
of  tongues  "  of  some  London  Bethel  to  the  Apo- 
calyptic visions  of  Swedenborg.  But  it  is  not 
sufficiently  recognised  that  the  pretensions  of  Science 
aided  this  growing  unbelief.  It  was  not  the  dis- 
coveries of  Science,  but  the  refutations  of  these 
discoveries,  that  have  really  plunged  the  world  in 
infidelity.  Science,  with  all  its  insolence,  could  not 
deny  the  existence  of  God.  Nay,  by  its  very  insistence 
on  the  truth  of  facts,  and  its  deductions,  as  well  as 
by  the  tremendous  insight  it  gave  into  the  stupendous 
workings  of  Nature,  it  certainly  enlarged  men's 
vision.  And  when  that  vision  fell  short  of  the  super- 
natural, the  minds  of  men,  annoyed  by  this  discovery 
of  their  limitations,  and,  as  it  were,  dashing  themselves 
against  the  blank  wall  of  the  Infinite,  gave  utterance 
to  the  wailings  of  Agnosticism — "  We  cannot  know." 
"  We  can  see  no  further."  But,  when,  in  our  own 
days,  Science  itself  has  the  ground  cut  from  under  its 
feet  by  fresher  and  more  recent  revelations,  when 
every  new  discovery  disproves  some  preceding  theory 
that  was  regarded  as  beyond  disproof ;  when  the  views 
of  the  greatest  thinkers  of  past  generations  are  now 
regarded  as  childish  and  absurd ;  and  the  most 
common  and  reasonable  ideas  about  space  and  time, 
colour,  sound,  light,  are  now  proved  to  be  absolutely 
puerile  ;  when  the  philosophy  of  atoms  has  been 
revised,  disproved,  reconstructed,  and  still  remains 
enigmatic  ;  and  when  no  scientist  can  yet  say  whether 
matter  is  a  condition  of  force,  or  force  a  condition  of 
matter,  the  world,  that  leaned  its  faith  on  the  dog- 
matism of  Science,  has  ceased  to  be  even  sceptical ; 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  155 

and  in  rejecting  or  disbelieving  its  dogmas,  has  come 
to  reject  all  doctrines  of  every  kind. 

Hence,  the  formulas  of  disbelievers  in  our  days — 
"  A  religious  life  compatible  with  disbelief  in  dogma  "; 
"  Religion,  but  not  Churches  "  ;  "  Ethics  without 
doctrine  "  ;  "  Christianity  without  Christ  "  ;  "  the 
decay  of  sectarian  doctrines  is  the  revival  of  religious 
life  "  ;  "  the  very  decline  in  church-attendance,  a 
sign  of  greater  religious  vitality  "  ;  "  Christianity, 
not  belief  in  Christ's  Divinity,  but  living  according 
to  the  maxims  of  Christ." 

It  is  specious.  Most  of  the  Protean  forms  of 
disbelief  have  been  so.  It  appeals  to  a  large  and  ever 
growing  class,  because  it  flatters  that  human  pride 
that  seeks  unbounded  license  of  thought.  It  is  an 
impossible  theory  of  morals.  It  is  illogical  and  absurd. 

It  is  specious.  It  appeals  to  a  moral  sense,  the 
existence  of  which,  even  in  the  worst  of  times,  men 
have  not  controverted,  although  they  might  have 
been  uneasy  under  its  restrictions.  The  Schools  and 
Universities  might  contend  about  propositions  ;  but, 
however  evil  men  might  violate  the  moral  sense  and 
secretly  rebel  beneath  its  precepts,  it  is  only  a  Rousseau 
here  and  there,  or  a  Whitman  once  in  a  century,  can 
be  found  to  argue  a  return  to  Nature.  Social  safety, 
political  well-being,  the  preservation  of  the  Common- 
wealth, the  sanctity  of  the  home,  the  safeguarding  of 
individual  rights,  demand  the  acknowledgment,  if 
not  the  careful  cultivation,  of  the  moral  sense.  The 
world  could  not  get  on  without  the  commandments 
fulminated  on  Sinai.  If  the  eternal  and  imperative 
precepts  :  "  Thou  shalt  not  kill,"  "  Thou  shalt  not 


156  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

steal,"  "  Thou  shalt  not  bear  false  witness,"  could  be 
defied  with  impunity,  civilization  would  end  in  a 
cataclysm,  and  all  social  life  would  perish  without  the 
possibility  of  being  reconstructed  on  any  other  basis. 
But  (so  it  seems  to  modern  non- dogmatics)  propo- 
sitions, doctrines,  decrees,  emanating  from  Churches, 
can  be  repudiated  without  any  such  result.  Nay, 
would  it  not  be  all  the  better  that  the  wars  of  sects 
should  cease,  and  that  the  ears  of  the  world  should 
be  no  longer  tormented  with  disputations  about 
dogmas,  or  controversies  about  abstruse  and  meta- 
physical questions,  which  the  human  mind  will  never 
solve  ;  and  that  we  should  be  left  at  peace  to  pursue 
the  avocation  of  life  within  the  limits  of  the  moral 
law,  about  which  there  can  be  no  question  ? 

Again,  although  it  restricts  human  freedom,  this 
theory  gives  the  widest  latitude  to  that  libertinism  of 
thought,  which  is  claimed  as  the  dearest  privilege  of 
human  liberty.  We  admit,  it  is  said,  the  necessity 
of  curbing  human  passion,  of  restricting  desires 
within  bounds  compatible  with  the  safety  and  com- 
fort of  others.  But  our  thoughts  must  be  free.  We 
must  be  at  liberty  to  believe,  or  not  believe.  Society 
may  tie  our  hands  and  lock  our  lips  ;  but  no  human 
authority  shall,  or  can  restrict,  the  God-given 
privilege  of  intellectual  liberty.  What  is  it  to  any 
man  whether  in  the  secrecy  of  my  own  soul  I  believe 
there  is  a  God,  or  no  God  ;  a  Trinity,  or  no  Trinity  ; 
a  God-man,  or  a  mere  sage  or  philanthropist ;  a 
soul  within  me  with  eternal  destinies  before  it,  or  I, 
a  mere  animal,  with  just  the  instincts,  desires,  and 
end  of  the  brute  creation  ?  I  shall  allow  no  man  to 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  157 

put  shackles  on  my  intellect.  The  law  will  punish 
me  if  I  do  wrong.  Quite  sufficient  for  me  then  is 
the  moral  law,  the  laws  of  society,  my  own  conscience. 
What  are  the  disputations  of  sects,  or  Churches,  or 
schools  to  me  ?  For  three  hundred  years  in  the 
beginning  of  the  Christian  era  the  whole  Eastern 
Empire  was  torn  asunder  by  wars,  treachery,  revolu- 
tions ;  Emperor  fighting  against  Emperor,  Pope  with 
Patriarch,  Councils  torn  asunder,  Churches  warring 
with  Churches,  and  nations  with  nations ;  for 
what  ?  One  single  vowel  in  the  Creed.  And  since 
that  time  has  not  all  European  civilization  been 
threatened  with  extinction  through  religious  wars  ? 
Nay,  Protestants  though  we  are,  we  cannot  help 
condemning  Luther  for  that  he  revived  an  interest 
in  dogmatic  religion  by  defying  its  central  authority, 
just  at  the  time  when  Europe  was  slowly,  but  surely, 
drifting  back  from  the  misery  and  squalor  of  the 
Dark  Ages  to  the  sweetness  and  light,  and  natural 
lives  and  happiness  of  the  ancient  Paganisms.  Yes, 
let  us  alone !  We  want  to  hear  no  more  about 
dogma  or  disputation — Arian  and  Anglican,  Cal- 
vinist  and  Socinian,  High  Church  and  Low  Church, 
Irvingite  and  Swedenborgian.  We  bend  our  neck  to  no 
man,  no  church,  no  creed.  We  claim  the  privilege  of 
unshackled  freedom.  We  pin  our  faith  to  no  for- 
mulas. We  subscribe  to  no  articles.  Within  us  is 
the  light  of  reason.  Without  us  the  laws  of  society 
that  we  shall  follow  ;  these,  we  obey.  But  Churches, 
Creeds,  Confessions  of  Faith,  we  shall  have  none 
of  them.  If  we  want  to  worship,  the  expanses  of 
Nature  will  be  our  sanctuary,  the  dome  of  Heaven 


158  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

our  Temple  ;  the  interchange  of  courtesies  with  our 
kind  will  be  our  Ritual ;  the  poets  will  be  our 
Apostles  ;  History  our  Evangelist.  We  shall  worship 
in  Temples  not  made  of  hands  ;  and  our  Apotheosis — 
our  final  return  to  inorganic  creation  !  We  are 
content  to  be  merged  in  the  Universe  of  Matter  ! 

So  say — in  speech,  and  book,  and  pamphlet,  from 
Press  and  platform,  in  prose  and  verse,  essay  and 
lecture — the  adherents  of  this,  the  newest,  the  most 
widely  spread,  and  the  most  specious  and  attractive 
form  of  Atheism  which  has  appeared  in  our  time. 

Yet,  the  absurdity  of  the  thing  is  apparent.  Its 
consequences  would  be,  if  pushed  to  logical  conclu- 
sions, calamitous. 

This  "  moral  sense,"  innate  or  acquired,  must  rest 
on  some  principle.  If  the  precept,  "  Thou  shalt  not 
kill,"  is  accepted,  the  principle  on  which  it  depends 
must  be  accepted  also.  Surely,  it  is  not  a  mere  whim 
or  caprice  of  humanity  that  keeps  men's  hands  from 
being  imbued  in  the  blood  of  their  fellow-men.  It 
is  not  a  sentiment  of  mercy,  or  compassion,  or  mere 
humanitarianism  that  saves  the  world  from  promis- 
cuous murder.  How  valueless  such  sentiments  are 
in  a  whirlwind  of  rage  and  passion,  such  as  is  let 
loose  in  war,  or  in  a  panic,  we  know  well.  There 
must  be  then  some  underlying  principle,  tacitly 
acknowledged  by  the  entire  race,  and  which  is  formu- 
lated in  the  theory  or  statement,  in  which  all  men 
acquiesce,  "It  is  wrong  and  criminal  to  shed  the 
blood  of  another."  But  this  is  dogma.  Therefore, 
in  accepting  this  common  religious  and  social  prin- 
ciple, you  put  the  yoke  of  dogma  about  your  neck. 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  159 

The  same  rule  applies  to  every  moral  prfnciple 
by  which  Society  is  cemented  and  solidified.  The 
Church  says  :  "  Whosoever  declares  or  holds  that 
it  is  right  to  steal,  or  murder,  or  rob,  or  bear  false 
witness,  let  him  be  anathema."  The  non-dogmatist 
says  :  "  Every  man  possesses  a  moral  sense  ;  and  this 
declares  that  it  is  criminal  in  se,  and  subversive  of 
all  moral  order  to  steal,  or  murder,  or  bear  false 
witness  ;  and  whosoever  holds  this  criminal  theory 
is  only  fit  to  be  put  outside  the  pale  of  civilization." 
Where  is  the  difference  in  the  formula  ?  The  veriest 
non-dogmatist  has  "  anathema  "  on  his  lips  as  well 
as  the  dogmatic  Church. 

Yes,  but  we  are  not  speaking  now  of  moral  precepts, 
is  the  reply.  There  we  are  at  one.  We  admit  that  the 
basis  of  all  morality  is  dogmatic  principle.  What  we 
repudiate  is,  your  Councils,  your  Decrees,  your  fine- 
drawn Definitions  and  Distinctions  about  articles  of 
Faith,  of  whose  inner  meaning  you  can  know  nothing, 
much  less  teach  us.  We  admit  that  the  moral  teach- 
ings of  Christianity  are  beautiful ;  and  we  try  to 
fashion  our  lives  thereon.  But,  as  to  the  person  of 
Christ,  His  origin,  His  Nature,  His  mission,  His 
miracles,  His  power,  we  know  nothing.  We  accept 
His  moral  teaching.  We  reject  all  dogmas  connected 
with  His  Person. 

But  do  you  not  see  that  all  the  force  of  the  supreme 
moral  teaching  of  Christ  comes  from  the  fact  that 
He  was  a  Divine  Teacher.  Why  do  you  not  accept 
the  teachings  of  Confucius,  of  Siddartha,  of  Seneca, 
of  Marcus  Aurelius,  of  Epictetus  ?  Because  they 
were  mere  men,  were  liable  to  error,  and  did  err  ; 


160  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

and  because  they  spoke  without  authority.  What 
has  given  weight  to  the  words  of  Christ,  such  weight, 
that  even  to-day,  after  nineteen  hundred  years,  they 
are  accepted  as  the  supreme  embodiment  of  all 
ethical  teaching  ?  The  answer  is,  His  authority. 
The  authority  of  a  mere  sage  or  philosopher  ?  Cer- 
tainly not.  This  would  bring  Him  down  to  the  level 
of  a  Socrates.  What  then  ?  His  authority,  as  God. 
There  is  no  denying  it.  There  is  no  possible  suppres- 
sion of  the  faith,  latent  and  dormant  in  some  minds, 
but  existent  in  all  minds,  that  Christ  was  the  Son 
of  the  Living  God.  The  very  hatred  that  men  bear 
to  Him,  their  blasphemies  against  His  adorable  name, 
prove  this.  If  He  were  a  mere  sage,  the  world  would 
bow  its  head,  and  pass  Him  by.  But  the  world  knows 
He  is  much  more  ;  and  hence  it  rages  against  Him. 
It  cannot  separate  His  teachings  from  His  mission. 
It  cannot  separate  His  mission  from  His  person.  It 
cannot  separate  His  person  from  His  Godhead. 
Whether  it  accepts  His  teachings  as  the  supreme 
moral  code  of  humanity,  or  rejects  with  hatred  His 
teaching  and  His  person  alike,  it  admits,  unconsciously 
and  unwillingly,  the  Dogma  of  the  Incarnation. 

In  the  same  wa)',  professing  non-dogmatists 
announce  their  belief  in  God,  His  attributes,  His 
perfections.  The  moment  they  accept  the  natural 
law,  or  the  guidance  of  reason,  they  profess  their 
faith  in  the  goodness  and  omniscience,  the  mercy 
and  justice  of  God.  For  if  there  be  a  moral  code, 
innate  to  the  human  soul,  it  cannot  spring  from  mere 
animal  nature  ;  nor  from  instinct ;  nor  from  ex- 
perience ;  nor  from  advanced  civilization,  without 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  161 

external  illumination — that  is,  the  dogma  of  Divine 
Providence.  If  there  be  a  moral  law,  directing  the 
will,  there  must  be  some  dogmatic  influence  control- 
ling the  intellect.  Law  is  universal,  inexorable. 
In  the  organic  and  inorganic  creations,  it  is  the  one 
thing  that  is  most  clearly  in  evidence.  All  things  are 
controlled  by  Law,  and  bow  to  its  behests.  Shall  the 
intellect  of  man  alone  break  away  from  the  Universe, 
and  be  uncontrolled  ?  Is  it  the  one  exception  to  the 
Cosmos  that  reigns  throughout  the  Universe  ?  Who 
emancipated  it  from  the  Universal  Order,  and  gave 
it  the  charter  of  unlicensed  liberty  ?  Or  who  flung 
the  reins  over  its  neck  and  bade  it  go  forth,  uncurbed 
and  unbridled,  whilst  all  things  else,  even  the  superior 
will  of  man,  have  to  suffer  themselves  to  be  dragged 
into  discipline  and  obedience  by  that'  tremendous 
centripetal  force  which  we  designate  as  Law  in  the 
inorganic  and  animal  creation,  as  conscience  or  the 
moral  sense  in  man.  The  suggestion  can  be  advanced 
only  to  be  repudiated.  Such  an  irregularity  would 
be  opposed  to  all  known  laws.  It  would  be  a  deor- 
dination  in  a  world  of  Order. 

But,  if  the  Intellect  has  to  be  curbed  like  all  things 
else,  it  is  quite  clear  that  from  its  very  nature  that 
curb  must  be  intellectual ;  that  is,  it  must  submit 
to  accept  some  primary  truths  of  propositions,  for- 
mulated by  some  authority,  external  to  itself.  And 
these  truths,  being  addressed  to  the  intellect,  can 
take  but  one  shape — that  of  Dogmatic  Truth  or 
Dogmatic  Fact.  What  Law  is  therefore  to  the 
organic  or  inorganic  creation,  universal,  inexorable, 
imperious,  and  even  necessary,  what  the  "  moral 

M 


162  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

sense,"  "  conscience,"  is  to  the  will  of  man  ;  even 
that  is  Dogma  to  the  Intellect.  You  may  reject 
Nicene  or  Athanasian  creeds  ;  you  may  spurn  the 
Thirty-Nine  Articles  or  other  formularies.  You 
cannot  rid  yourselves  of  dogma.  Even  Carlyle,  who 
rang  the  changes  of  unlimited  scorn  on  the  early 
controversies  of  Christianity,  was  compelled  to  admit, 
that  on  the  acceptance  or  non-acceptance  of  that 
one  word  in  the  Creed  of  Nicsea,  the  whole  of  Christi- 
anity depended. 

But  if  we  suppose,  per  impossibili,  that  dogma 
could  be  suppressed,  the  consequences  to  human 
society  would  be  disastrous.  Nay,  we  are  witnesses 
in  these  latter  times  of  such  disaster  coming  down 
upon  society  from  the  denial  of  dogma,  and  the 
repudiation  of  Authority.  For  what  is  Saint- Simon- 
ism,  with  its  ugly  brood  of  Socialists,  Nihilists, 
Communists,  French  "  Solidaires,"  Italian  "  Anarch- 
ists," etc.,  but  the  denial  of  any  dogma  binding  the 
intellect,  and  the  denial  of  moral  law  binding  the 
will  of  man  ?  It  is  easy  for  a  modern  doctrinaire, 
seated  at  his  writing-desk,  surrounded  by  his  books, 
or  lolling  in  his  reading-chair,  to  sweep  away  creeds 
and  formularies,  and  ridicule  rites  and  rituals  that 
really  belong  to  humanity,  and  must  take  form  in 
some  shape  to  satisfy  man's  needs.  But,  when  the 
apparently  harmless,  speculative  denunciations  of 
existing  beliefs  or  governments  takes  root  in  the  minds 
of  the  vast  army  of  the  disappointed  and  discontented, 
and  altars  are  overturned  and  thrones  upset,  men 
begin  to  perceive  how  easily  theories  pass  into  prac- 
tice, and  how  evil  a  crop  may  develop  from  poisonous 
seed.  Between  Carlyle,  fulminating  from  his  sound- 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  163 

proof  attic  in  Chelsea  against  all  existing  creeds, 
governments,  social  life,  and  Karl  Marx,  accepting 
all  this  denunciation  as  the  righteous  condemnation 
of  existing  shams  and  chimeras,  where  is  the  differ- 
ence ?  The  appeal  to  "  Veracities  "  and  "  Unveraci- 
ties,"  when  men  are  told  that  there  is  nothing  true, 
nor  genuine,  nor  honest,  under  the  sun,  will  have  the 
effect  of  sharpening  the  hunger  and  quieting  the 
conscience  of  a  mob,  that  demands  an  equality  which 
it  will  not  concede,  and  a  common  proprietorship  in 
goods  that  are  not  its  own.  And  when  all  fear,  and 
hope,  and  reverence  are  removed  from  the  minds  of 
men  by  the  deliberate  denial  of  every  dogma,  and 
therefore  of  all  moral  law,  what  can  be  expected  but 
atheism  in  theory,  and  anarchy  in  practice  ? 

There  is  no  getting  over  that  logical  and  peremp- 
tory sequence — no  Dogma — no  Ethics  !  There  is 
no  binding  the  consciences  of  men  by  shadowy 
abstractions  and  vague  appeals  to  phantom  virtues, 
undefined  by  doctrinal  truths,  and  unsupported  by 
some  supreme  authority,  that  makes  the  practice  of 
those  virtues  imperative.  It  lends  but  sanction  to 
human  vice  and  passion  to  say  :  Live  noble  lives, 
and  quit  yourselves  like  men  in  the  fight !  The 
question  will  recur :  What  are  noble  lives  ?  and 
what  means,  "  to  quit  ourselves  like  men  ?  "  Robin 
Hood  and  his  merry  men  had  their  own  code  of 
morals  : — 

"  Because  the  good  old  rule 
Sufficed  for  them.     The  simple  plan, 
That  they  shall  take  who  have  the  power, 
And  they  shall  keep,  who  can." 


164  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

But  Robin  Hood,  and  every  pirate  and  freebooter 
that  ever  lived,  thought  they  were  living  noble,  free 
lives,  and  certainly  that  they  "  quitted  themselves 
like  men  in  the  fight."  And  who  shall  deny  that  the 
world,  in  spite  of  its  Pharisaism,  has  always  had  a 
secret  sympathy  with  them,  or  the  footpads — on  a 
larger  scale,  whom  the  world  calls  its  heroes  and 
conquerors  ?  But  will  that  do  ?  Can  society  hang 
together  on  such  theories  ?  Or  must  not  there  be 
some  voice,  as  of  Sinai,  to  pronounce  first,  the  ever- 
lasting Dogma  : 

"  I  am  the  Lord,  thy  God," 
and  then  the  inexorable  precepts  : 

"  Thou  shalt,"  and  "  Thou  shalt  not." 

Yes  !  It  is  perfectly  futile  to  say  that  men  must  lead 
clean,  just,  honourable  lives,  unless  someone  defines 
what  are  purity,  justice,  honour.  But  behind  that 
definition  there  must  be  authority  ;  and  behind  that 
authority  must  be  its  credentials,  founded  on 
dogmatic  truth. 

It  may  be  said  that  all  this  is  so  clear,  that,  whilst 
the  multitude  still  clings  to  its  pleasant  formula 
"  Religion  without  creed  or  church,"  the  leading 
thinkers  amongst  unbelievers  willingly  admit  that 
this  idea  is  neither  logical  nor  reasonable.  Hence, 
the  curious  change  that  has  come  over  the  tone  and 
temper  of  unbelievers  in  our  time.  Instead  of  the 
fierce,  bitter  scorn  cast  upon  religious  belief  by  the 
whole  French  school,  and  imitated,  to  their  eternal 
shame,  by  English  scientists,  there  appears  now  a 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  165 

quiet,  half-apologetic,  wholly  deprecatory  tone,  as  of 
men  who  boasted  incontinently  of  their  security, 
and  have  found  the  ground  slipping  from  beneath 
them.  We  have  already  seen  how  Carlyle  modified 
his  fierce,  scornful  invectives  against  the  Fathers  of 
the  early  Councils  ;  and  now  we  find  in  Herbert 
Spencer's  Autobiography,  which  may  be  accepted  as 
his  last  word,  and  the  expression  of  his  most  mature 
convictions,  the  following  significant,  if  half-hearted, 
declaration,  that  religious  creeds  or  cults  of  some 
kind  is  a  necessity.  Coming  from  the  pen  of  so 
thorough  an  evolutionist,  who  has  been  preaching 
all  his  life  the  progression  of  mankind  by  "  evolution  " 
and  "  natural  selection,"  and  the  "  survival  of  the 
fittest,"  to  the  imaginary  perfection  of  some  millen- 
nium, they  bear  their  own  lesson  : — 

"  While  the  current  creed  was  slowly  losing  its 
hold  on  me,  the  whole  question  seemed  to  be  the 
truth  or  untruth  of  the  particular  doctrines  I  had 
been  taught.  But  gradually,  and  especially  of  later 
years,  I  have  become  aware  that  this  is  not  the  sole 
question.  Partly,  the  wider  knowledge  obtained  of 
human  societies  has  caused  this.  Many  have,  I 
believe,  recognised  the  fact  that  a  cult  of  some  sort, 
with  its  social  embodiment,  is  a  constituent  in  every 
society  -which  has  made  any  progress.  The  masses  of 
evidence,  classified  and  arranged  in  the  Descriptive 
Sociology,  have  forced  this  belief  upon  me  indepen- 
dently, if  not  against  my  will ;  still,  without  any 
desire  to  entertain  it,  there  seems  no  escape  from  the 
inference,  that  the  maintenance  of  social  subordination 
has  peremptorily  required  the  aid  of  some  such  agency. 


166  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

Thus  I  have  come  to  look  more  and  more  calmly 
on  forms  of  religious  belief  to  which  I  had,  in  earlier 
days,  a  profound  aversion.  Holding  that  they  are 
in  the  main  naturally  adapted  to  their  respective 
peoples  and  times,  it  now  seems  to  me  well  that  they 
should  severally  live  and  work  as  long  as  the  con- 
ditions permit ;  and  further,  that  sudden  changes 
of  religious  institutions,  as  of  political  institutions, 
are  certain  to  be  followed  by  reactions.  Largely, 
however,  if  not  chiefly,  this  change  of  feeling  towards 
religious  creeds  and  their  sustaining  institutions  has 
resulted  from  a  deepening  conviction  that  the  sphere 
occupied  by  them  can  never  be  an  unfilled  sphere  ;  but 
that  there  must  continue  to  arise  afresh  the  great 
questions  concerning  ourselves  and  surrounding 
things  ;  and  that,  if  not  positive  answers,  then  modes 
of  consciousness  standing  in  place  of  positive  answers, 
must  ever  remain.  By  those  who  know  much,  more 
than  by  those  who  know  little,  is  there  felt  the  need 
for  explanation.  Thus  religious  creeds,  which  in 
one  way  or  other  occupy  the  sphere  that  rational 
interpretation  seeks  to  occupy  and  fails,  and  fails  the 
more  the  more  it  seeks,  I  have  come  to  regard  with  a 
sympathy,  based  on  community  of  need,  feeling  that 
dissent  from  them  results  from  inability  to  accept  the 
solutions  offered,  joined  with  the  wish  that  solutions 
could  be  found." 

Why  Herbert  Spencer  did  not  move  a  step  further 
and  perceive  that  if  the  laws  of  right  and  wrong  are 
eternal  and  unchangeable,  the  cultus  which  sub- 
ordinates human  passion  to  such  laws  must  be 
formed  and  based  on  eternal  and  unchangeable  truth, 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  167 

and  not  allowed  to  change,  and  shift,  and  modify 
itself  to  suit  merely  human  exigencies,  is  a  problem 
that  his  Autobiography  does  not  solve  ;  and  remaining 
insoluble  now  for  ever,  it  is  another  proof  of  the 
limitations  that  will  always  surround  the  highest 
philosophic  conceptions  when  unilluminated  by 
Divine  Faith.  But  his  testimony  is  at  least  valuable 
as  a  corroboration  of  our  thesis — and  all  the  more 
valuable  as  the  result — the  unwelcome  result — of  an 
experience  of  eighty  years. 


THE  MOONLIGHT  OF  MEMORY 

IX 

"  The  moonlight  of  memory  !  " 

The  phrase  is  not  mine.  It  is  a  favourite  expression 
of  that  greatest  of  German  humanists — Jean  Paul 
Richter.  And  it  is  a  very  beautiful  one  ;  because 
memory  undoubtedly  does  cast  a  strange,  uncanny, 
wistful  light  over  events  which,  in  the  broad  sunlight 
of  experience,  had  sometimes  very  little  of  poetry  or 
tenderness  in  them.  And  it  is  very  strange  that,  as 
we  advance  in  years,  old  times,  old  faces,  old  scenes, 
that  seemed  to  have  been  blurred  over  or  entirely 
blotted  out  in  our  adolescence,  have  a  new  resurrec- 
tion in  our  memory  and  stand  out  clear  and 
distinct  as  the  figures  in  a  stereoscope  against  the 
dark  background  of  the  past.  How  beautifully,  for 
example,  do  the  plain,  prosaic,  limestone  walls  of  the 
old  Market-House  in  Mallow,  which  crowned  and 
terminated  the  New  Street  in  which  I  was  born, 
stand  out  in  the  diorama,  which  memory  unrolls 
from  out  the  side-scenes  of  the  little  theatre  of  my 
existence  !  How  well  I  remember  it  in  the  sunlight 
and  in  the  moonlight — the  exact  flat  stone  which  we 
singled  out  for  our  balls  ;  the  niches  which  were 
such  a  sore  trouble  to  us  ;  the  old  weighing-machine  ; 
the  vast  and  tremendous  circuses  whose  splendours, 

168 


THE  LITERARY  LIFE  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  169 

as  of  Arabian  Nights,  were  hidden  within  under 
locked  and  closed  gates.  How  romantic  now,  seen 
in  the  light  of  memory,  was  the  dear  old  glen,  where 
we  first  learned  the  art  of  poetry  in  its  wild  flowers : 
the  primroses  and  the  cowslips,  and  the  wild  hya- 
cinths, whose  fragrance,  like  the  perfume  that  hangs 
around  old  letters,  comes  back  to  us  across  the  years  ; 
and  the  brook,  narrowing  and  broadening,  which  we 
leaped  in  the  summer  time,  and  whose  flags  we  wove 
into  tiny  boats,  and  where  we  fished  for  collies  and 
sticklebacks  ;  and  where  we  wondered  at  the  gor- 
geous dragon-flies  that  swam  and  sang  in  the  air  on 
the  hot  summer-days  ;  and  the  little  chalet  on  the 
cliff,  with  its  fringe  of  firs,  which  looked  so  beautiful 
and  poetical  against  the  sunset ;  and  the  song  of  the 
cuckoo,  echoing  the  lines  of  Wordsworth  ;  and  the 
ditch  overhead,  where  many  a  summer  evening  we 
watched  and  envied  the  little  batches  of  Fenians 
going  up  to  drill  in  the  dark  recesses  of  Buckley's 
wood.  For  that  sublime  and  sacred  feeling  that  took 
these  tradesmen  away  from  work  and  pleasure,  was 
also  the  passion  of  our  youth.  The  shadow  of  '48, 
and  the  wild  music  that  came  out  of  the  shadow, 
were  upon  us  ;  and  we  were  watching  with  beating 
hearts  and  kindling  eyes  the  prelude  of  '67. 

I  have  quoted  elsewhere  a  little  experience  of  mine 
on  one  of  the  dark  winter  nights  of  the  year  '65. 
I  see  now,  as  clearly  as  I  saw  then,  the  short  well-knit 
figure  of  a  ballad  singer  in  the  Main  Street ;  I  see 
the  gas-light  from  the  shop  flickering  on  his  coat ; 
I  see  the  coat  shining  and  glistening  because  the  rain 
was  pouring  in  cataracts  on  his  clothes  ;  I  see  his 


170  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

face,  pale  but  stern-looking,  his  black  hair  falling 
down  in  ringlets  on  his  shoulders  ;  the  short  black 
moustache ;  the  right  hand  hidden  away  in  his 
breast ;  I  hear  his  fine  voice  ringing  up  along  the 
deserted  street  that  fine  ballad  (I  often  wonder  who 
is  the  Innominatus  that  wrote  it),  called  in  Irish 
Anthologies,  "  The  Fenian  Men."  I  remember  how 
it  thrilled  us  to  hear  the  words  : 

"  But  once  more  returning,  within  our  veins  burning 
The  fires  that  illumined  dark  Aherlow's  glen  ; 
We  raise  the  old  cry  anew,  Slogan  of  Con  and  Hugh, 
Out  and  make  way  for  the  bold  Fenian  men  !  " 

And  how  we  agreed  to  tear  ourselves  away  from  the 
fascination,  and  post  ourselves  as  vedettes  up  along 
the  street  from  Tuckey's  corner  to  Fair  Lane,  lest 
the  police  should  come  on  him  unawares  and  arrest 
him.  For  we  knew  that  he  was  a  Fenian  emissary, 
and  that  he  had  work  on  hands  that  night,  besides 
singing. 

There  was  another  agent  of  the  Brotherhood,  who 
came  and  went  in  a  secret,  but  to  us,  most  fascinating 
manner,  who  used  gather  us  boys  into  a  corner  of 
that  old  Market-House,  and  pour  floods  of  hot 
rebellion  into  our  eager  minds.  It  was  from  his  lips 
I  first  heard  those  noble  ballads  of  Thomas  Davis  : 
"  When  on  Ramillies'  bloody  field  ;  "  and  that  superb 
song  that  ought  to  be  familiar  to  every  Irish  boy  and 
girl :  "  The  Battle-eve  of  the  Brigade."  It  was  not 
only  that  he  hummed  and  recited  and  taught  us  these 
fine  songs  ;  but  he  dramatised  them.  He  showed  us 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  171 

the  French  lines  stretching  along  one  side  of  the  glen, 
the  Irish  Brigade  in  the  centre  ;  he  showed  us  the 
men  sleeping  around  their  camp-fires,  the  remnants 
of  the  Wild  Geese  who  had  fought  on  the  walls  of 
Limerick  ;  he  showed  us  the  mess-tent  in  the  centre, 
the  canvas  flapping,  the  lamps  hanging  down  from 
the  poles  ;  the  swords  and  shakoes  of  the  officers 
on  pegs  at  the  sides  ;  the  long  table,  loaded  with 
glasses  and  decanters  ;  the  Irish  officers  with  un- 
buttoned uniforms,  drinking  and  carousing  till  the 
dawn.  We  saw  the  tall  figure  of  Count  Thomond  at 
the  head,  "  straight  as  an  uplifted  lance."  We  heard 
the  toasts. 

"  Mark  the  words ! "  our  strange  and  fugitive 
mentor  used  to  say  ;  "  mark  the  toasts  and  how  the 
captains  received  them : 

'  Here's  a  health  to  King  James  !   and 
they  bent  as  they  quaffed  ! ' 

That  was  Shemus  the  coward  !  the  fellow  that  ran 
away  from  the  Boyne,  and  left  behind  him  the  men, 
who  cried :  '  Change  kings,  and  we'll  fight  you 
again  1  *  But  there's  the  Irish  always,  making  fools 
of  themselves  about  kings  and  queens,  and  leaders 
who  betray  them  1  '  They  bent  as  they  quaffed ! ' 
They  didn't  cheer  !  Oh,  no  !  They  couldn't  do  that ! 
But  you  see  they  had  a  soft  corner  in  their  hearts 
for  the  Stuarts  who  betrayed  them  !  But  look  at  the 
second  toast : — 

4  Here's  to  George  the  Elector  !   and  fiercely  they 
laughed  ! ' 


172  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

Of  course  they  did  !  That  was  George,  the  English 
king  !  How  they  wished  they  could  meet  him  on 
the  morrow  !  Look  at  the  third  toast : — 

'  Good  luck  to  the  girls  we  loved  long  ago, 
Where  the  Shannon  and  Barrow  and  Blackwater 
flow.' 

"  What  do  they  do  now  ?  Nothing  at  all.  They 
had  something  else,  besides  girls,  to  be  thinking 
about  that  night,  those  warriors  and  captains  of  the 
Brigade  !  Ah,  but  now  look  at  the  last  toast : — 

'  God  prosper  all  Ireland  ! ' 

"  What  did  they  do  now  ?  Did  they  rise  up  and 
throw  their  helmets  in  the  air,  and  shout  and  make 
fools  of  themselves,  as  you  see  men  doing  to-day  ? 
NO  !  But  they  put  down  their  glasses  in  silence  on 
the  table  ;  and  their  faces  grew  as  white  as  a  girl's 
who  has  seen  a  ghost,  and  they  covered  their  eyes 
with  their  hands.  What  does  Davis  say  ? 

'  You'd  think  them  afraid 
So  pale  grew  the  chiefs  of  the  Irish  Brigade  ! ' 

"  That's  just  it !  That's  the  finest  dramatic  touch 
in  all  poetry  !  Look  at  them,  boys  !  Look  at  them  ! 
The  forty  captains  of  the  Irish  Brigade,  their  faces 
white,  the?r  hands  trembling,  their  hearts  throbbing  ! 
And  why  ?  Because  the  sorrow  of  Ireland  and  the 
sadness  of  Ireland,  and  her  eternal  hopes  always  and 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  173 

ever  defeated,  have  come  down  on  them  !  And 
because  they  remember  what  a  little  thing  was 
between  them  and  victory  !  And  because  they  think, 
if  they  had  listened  to  the  voice  of  their  Bishop  and 
the  Franciscan  Friar,  who  told  them  hold  out  to  the 
end,  all  would  have  been  different !  Ah,  yes  ! 
Look  at  them  !  Look  at  them  !  and  believe  me,  boys, 
you  needn't  much  mind  the  man  who  flings  his 
caubeen  in  the  air  and  yells  and  shouts,  and  says 
he'll  shed  the  last  drop  of  his  blood  for  Ireland  ! 
But  whenever  you  hear  :  God  save  Ireland  !  or  God 
prosper  old  Ireland  !  and  you  see  a  man's  fingers 
twitching,  and  his  teeth  clenching,  and  the  lines 
drawing  down  on  his  face,  and  the  colour  flying  from 
his  cheeks  ;  ah,  yes,  boys,  mind  him  !  " 

Strange  to  say,  it  was  an  exact  picture  of  the  men 
in  whose  Brotherhood  he  was  enrolled.  For  that 
was  one  characteristic  of  those  Fenians.  They  were 
silent,  strong  men,  into  whose  character  some  stern 
and  terrible  energy  seemed  to  have  been  infused. 
There  were  no  braggarts  amongst  them.  Their 
passion  was  too  deep  for  words  ;  and  that  passion 
was  an  all-consuming,  fierce,  unswerving  and  un- 
selfish love  for  Ireland.  They  did  not  love  their 
motherland  because  she  gave  them  a  scrap  of  her 
bogs,  or  fields,  or  mountains,  or  because  they  could 
sell  her  interests  at  a  brigand's  valuation  ;  but  because 
she  was  Ireland,  and  she  had  wrongs  to  be  avenged 
and  sorrows  to  be  redressed ;  and,  because  they 
hoped,  every  man  and  boy  among  them,  to  see  the 
day  when  they  would  help  to  crown  that  dear  old 
motherland  with  the  royal  symbols  of  independence. 


174  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

Yes  !  in  truth,  the  blood  runs  freely  in  the  veins  of 
youth,  and  our  veins  ran  fire  under  the  stimulus  of 
that  glorious  passion.  With  what  scorn  we  drowned 
some  wretched  music-hall  song  about  "  A  dark  girl 
dressed  in  blue  "  with  the  ringing  notes  of 

"  Viva  la  !   the  New  Brigade  ! 
Viva  la  !   the  old  one  too  ; 
Viva  la  !   the  rose  shall  fade, 
And  the  Shamrock  shine  for  ever  new  !  " 

And  how  we  whispered  amongst  ourselves  awful 
secrets  about  certain  places  along  the  Railway 
Embankment,  where  coffins,  filled  with  well-greased 
rifle  barrels  were  stored.  At  that  time  in  Mallow 
football  was  almost  unknown.  Hurling  and  handball 
in  winter,  cricket  in  summer,  were  the  universal 
games.  Every  lane,  every  street  had  its  cricket-club  ; 
and  high  above  all,  and  dominating  all,  was  the 
M.C.C.,  the  magic  letters  that  floated  on  the  flag 
that  hung  above  the  little  shanty  in  the  cricket  field 
that  lies  to  the  east  of  the  monastery.  That  club 
was  then  the  most  formidable  in  the  South  of  Ireland. 
It  had  won  victories  everywhere  ;  beaten  military 
and  city  clubs  beyond  number  ;  and  its  members 
were  heroes  in  our  sight — Curtin,  the  Captain ; 
George  and  Harry  Foote,  demon  bowlers ;  Pat 
Kelly,  the  slow  bowler,  whose  deadly  "  twists  "  were 
feared  more  than  the  cannonading  of  the  Footes  ; 
Joss  Mullane,  the  famous  backstop  ;  Micka  Roche, 
the  favourite  batsman,  and  Bill  O'Brien,  the  genial 
giant,  whose  mighty  feat  of  sending  a  ball  over  the 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  175 

Courthouse  walls  from  the  centre  of  the  cricket- 
grounds  is  remembered  to  this  day.  What  then 
must  have  been  the  mighty  attraction  that  took  us, 
schoolboys,  away  from  such  an  arena  on  a  certain 
hot  summer  afternoon,  and  flung  us,  a  wild  dis- 
ordered mass,  into  the  public  streets  ?  Nothing  but 
the  report  that  the  police  had  surrounded  the  house 
of  John  Sullivan,  at  the  corner  of  Carmichael's  Lane, 
had  placed  him  under  arrest,  and  were  searching 
every  room  for  papers.  We  were  not  disappointed. 
The  whole  town  was  out ;  and  there,  inside  his  shop 
window,  we  could  see  the  prisoner,  erect  as  usual 
and  unconcerned,  and  chatting  gaily  with  the  crowd 
of  constables  that  filled  the  house.  He  had  on  his 
usual  white  coat  (he  was  a  baker),  and  was  stroking 
his  short  American-cut  beard.  Presently,  the  District- 
Inspector  came  down  stairs.  He  had  found  nothing 
to  compromise  the  prisoner.  No  wonder.  Every 
second  man  amongst  the  constables  present  was  a 
sworn  Fenian. 

One  beautiful  August  night  the  following  summer, 
1866,  a  group  of  four  young  lads  walked  up  and  down 
the  Main  Street  from  Tuckey's  Hill  to  Chapel  Lane 
and  back.  It  was  a  glorious  night,  the  moonlight 
flooding  the  whole  street  without  throwing  a  shadow 
from  the  houses.  They  were  chatting  about  a  hundred 
things.  Then  the  Town  Clock  struck  ten ;  and 
just  at  Tuckey's  Hill  they  paused,  and  the  central 
figure  said  to  the  present  writer,  who  was  then  home 
from  St.  Colman's  for  his  first  holidays  : 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  the  Church  !  "  I  said. 


176  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  that  was  my  idea 
also  ;  and  I  haven't  had  much  happiness  since  I 
abandoned  it." 

It  was  James  O'Brien,  the  Captain  in  the  Revolu- 
tionary Forces,  although  he  cannot  have  been  more 
than  eighteen  years  old.  How  well  I  remember  him — 
the  strong,  square  face,  dimpled  all  over  with  curious 
lines,  when  he  smiled ;  the  tall,  sinewy,  athletic 
figure  ;  the  broad  shoulders  ;  the  erect  figure  and 
military  gait  of  the  boy — Ay  de  mi  !  what  might  have 
been  ? 

A  few  months  later,  when  the  snow  was  some  feet 
thick  upon  the  ground,  he  put  aside  his  civilian  jacket 
and,  like  Emmet,  donned  his  green  uniform  ;  slung 
his  revolvers  around  his  neck ;  slipped  unobserved 
from  the  house,  and  trudged  along  the  six  miles  to 
Ballynockin,  where  he  met  Captain  Mackey  and  a 
contingent  of  absolutely  unarmed  men  from  Cork. 
They  brought  out  the  women  and  children  from  the 
police  barrack  ;  and  as  the  men  refused  to  surrender, 
they  instantly  set  fire  to  the  place.  The  sergeant 
and  four  constables  were  only  saved  from  a  terrible 
death  by  the  intervention  of  the  curate  (Canon 
Neville),  who  commanded  the  police  to  surrender 
at  once,  and  he  would  exonerate  them  from  all  blame 
before  their  superiors.  Then  a  detachment  of  military 
stationed  at  Purcell's  of  Dromore  came  up,  and  the 
unarmed  Fenians  dispersed.  The  next  day  James 
O'Brien  was  arrested  and  lodged  in  Mallow  Bridewell 
for  three  weeks  awaiting  his  trial. 

A  pitch  dark  night  the  following  winter,  somewhere 
before  or  after  Christmas,  I  found  myself  in  Cork. 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  177 

It  was  an  awful  night,  the  rain  falling  in  torrents. 
For  some  reason  I  wished  to  see  Mrs.  O'Brien — what 
the  reason  was  I  cannot  remember  now.  I  hired  a 
covered-car,  and  bade  the  driver  take  me  to  Mrs. 
O'Brien's,  Nile  Street,  He  seemed  reluctant ;  but 
he  gave  way.  Half-way  down  King  Street  he  stopped 
and  tapped  at  the  window.  I  let  it  down.  He  put 
his  face  through  the  aperture,  and  whispered  : 

"  Do  you  mane  the  Captain's,  sor  ?  " 

I  said,  yes  !  and  we  drove  on  ;  and  James  O'Brien, 
the  chevalier  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche,  passed 
out  of  my  life.  Once  afterwards  I  heard  that  at  a 
certain  Commercial  Ball  in  Cork  he  created  quite 
a  sensation  as  he  walked  into  the  room,  a  green 
rosette  on  his  breast,  and  a  fair  young  girl  hanging 
on  his  arm.  I  wonder  could  it  have  been  "  Brigid  " 
of  the  Nation,  the  hidden  and  unappreciated  writer 
of  the  best  dramatic  poem,  "  Sentenced  to  Death," 
and  the  best  piece  of  Irish  humour,  "  How  Tom 
Bourke  became  a  Zouave,"  that  we  possess  in  Anglo- 
Irish  literature. 

Like  many  another  genius,  which  has  needed  years 
and  a  theatre  for  its  development,  his  brother  William, 
the  great  tribune  of  after  years,  was  comparatively 
obscured  ;  but  even  then,  slow  of  speech,  he  was 
known  to  be  desperately  tenacious  of  purpose.  The 
first  man,  curiously  enough,  to  recognise  his  hidden 
talent  was  a  Mr.  Wright,  a  Protestant  classical 
teacher,  who  foretold  brilliant  scholarship  from  the 
pages  of  Latin  composition  that  his  young  pupil 
presented  to  him. 

The  following  March,  that  of  ever-memorable  '67, 

N 


178  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

was  unusually  severe.  At  the  middle  of  the"month 
the  snow  was  thick  upon  the  ground,  and  the  long 
flanks  and  high  peaks  of  the  Galtees  were  a  mass  of 
glistening  crystals.  It  amused  us,  young  rebels  in 
St.  Colman's,  to  see  or  pretend  we  saw  the  dark  files 
of  the  Fenians  silhouetted  against  the  virgin  back- 
ground of  the  hills,  and  the  red  patches  of  the  British 
regiments  in  the  rear.  But  then  one  day  came  in  a 
report  that  the  Fenians  had  been  surrounded  in 
Kilclooney  wood,  and  had  been  overpowered  and 
annihilated.  Gradually  the  news  filtered  down  until 
it  touched  reality,  that  Peter  O'Neill  Crowley  had 
been  killed  with  English  bullets  on  the  banks  of  the 
mountain  stream  ;  that  he  had  previously  ordered 
his  companions  to  flee  and  save  themselves  ;  that  it 
was  only  at  his  earnest  entreaties  Captains  Kelly  and 
McClure  consented  to  fly ;  and  that  then  the  brave 
man  fought  a  whole  British  regiment  and  a  posse  of 
police,  dodging  from  tree  to  tree,  and  firing  steadily 
on  the  advancing  enemy,  until  his  ammunition  was 
exhausted ;  and  he  fell  pierced  with  bullets,  God 
having  given  him  time  enough  to  receive  the  last 
Sacraments  at  the  hands  of  Father  Tim  O'Connell, 
then  curate  at  Mitchelstown. 

I  remember  well  the  evening  on  which  that  remark- 
able funeral  took  place.  It  was  computed  that  at 
least  five  thousand  men  took  part  in  the  procession 
and  shouldered  the  coffin  of  the  dead  patriot  over 
mountain  and  valley  and  river,  until  they  placed  the 
sacred  burden  down  there  near  the  sea  and  under  the 
shadow  of  the  church  at  Ballymacoda.  I  remember 
how  a  group  of  us,  young  lads,  shivered  in  the  cold 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  179 

March  wind  there  on  the  College  Terrace  at  Fermoy, 
and  watched  the  dark  masses  of  men  swaying  over 
the  bridge,  the  yellow  coffin  conspicuous  in  their 
midst.  We  caught  another  glimpse  of  the  funeral 
cortege  as  it  passed  the  Sergeant's  Lodge ;  then  we 
turned  away  with  tears  of  sorrow  and  anger  in  our 
eyes. 

A  great  strength  and  fierce  force  lay  in  all  these  men. 
They  were  in  desperate  and  deadly  earnest.  They 
seldom  smiled  or  jested  during  those  momentous 
years.  They  always  wore  the  same  grim  look  of 
settled  determination.  It  was  life  or  death  that  was 
in  the  balance.  They  walked  under  the  shadow  of 
the  scaffold. 

Two  years  later,  one  of  these  men,  who  had  been 
sentenced  to  be  hanged,  drawn  and  quartered,  James 
F.  X.  O'Brien,  visited  the  Presentation  Convent  in 
Fermoy  to  see  his  sister,  who  was  a  nun  there ;  and 
the  Bishop,  who  was  in  Fermoy  at  the  time,  had 
asked  the  liberated  patriot  to  dine  at  the  College. 
Probably  at  that  time  Dr.  Keane  was  the  most  popular 
and  well-beloved  Bishop  in  Ireland.  He  deserved 
it.  He  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  strong,  almost 
an  extreme  Nationalist.  I  was  too  young  to  under- 
stand. I  only  knew  that  the  newspapers  were  fond 
of  quoting  some  words  which  he  addressed  to  the 
students  at  the  Irish  College,  Paris. 

"  Gentlemen,  remember  that  your  first  duty  is 
to  your  God  ;  the  second  to  your  country  !  " 

The  Irish  memory  was  then  tenacious,  and  fond 
of  treasuring  up  the  words  of  its  great  men.  A  few 
words  in  another  direction  sent  another  Bishop  (a 


i8o  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

~  - 

very  great  and  a  very  holy*man)"down  to  his  grave 
under  a  storm  of  obloquy  and  hate. 

This  evening  Mr.  O'Brien  was  late  for  dinner, 
which  was  half  gone  through  when  he  arrived.  The 
little  quiet  figure  dressed  in  gray  had  stolen  half-way 
up  the  hall  when  he  was  observed.  The  whole  body 
of  priests  and  students  sprang  to  their  feet,  and  gave 
him  an  ovation  that  a  king  might  envy. 

During  these  vacations  from  our  seminary  course, 
we  had  to  witness  sometimes  strange  scenes.  Probably 
the  most  pathetic,  if  we  had  known  it,  were  the  borough 
elections.  It  was  then,  and  up  to  1882,  when  William 
O'Brien  broke  the  evil  spell  for  ever,  a  mere  contest 
between  two  landlords,  one  Liberal,  one  Conservative, 
both  caring  equally  little  for  the  country  or  the  people. 
Sir  Denham  Norreys,  the  local  magnate,  held  the 
borough  for  thirty  years.  To  my  imagination,  he 
was  the  embodiment  and  impersonation  of  the 
haughty  aristocrat.  He  was  an  old  man  then  ;  but 
his  slight  figure,  his  gold  glasses,  and,  above  all,  his 
magnificent  gait  and  carriage,  as  he  walked  up  the 
Main  Street,  seemed  to  my  youthful  fancy  the  type 
of  old-world  haute  noblesse,  in  whom  it  would  be  a 
condescension  to  speak  to  an  ordinary  mortal.  I 
remember  how  everyone  stepped  off  the  sidewalk 
as  he  approached,  and  how  he  looked  neither  to  the 
right  hand  nor  to  the  left,  and  never  spoke  to  the 
commonality.  He  came  in  for  a  good  deal  of  rough 
handling  at  the  elections  ;  and  it  was  remarkable  that 
even  then  he  never  seemed  to  lose  that  splendid 
hauteur  of  manner.  Once  a  local  solicitor,  and  a 
very  clever  man,  was  speaking  from  the  broad  window 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  181 

at  the  left-hand  corner  of  Fair  Lane,  and  he  said,  as 
I  well  remember : 

"  He  calls  himself  Sir  Denham  Norreys  ;  but  I 
call  him  Sir  Damn  Nonsense  !  " 

We  thought  the  stars  would  fall.  But  there  it  was — 
Norreys  v.  Longfield  for  years ;  and  a  squadron  of 
huzzars,  sabres  drawn,  marching  two  and  two  up 
along  the  street  the  whole  day  long ;  and  three 
hundred  police  massed  around  the  Court  House  the 
day  of  the  polling — all  to  keep  these  poor  Irish  fools 
from  murdering  one  another !  But  the  secret  fires 
were  burning  also  in  young  hearts  at  the  time. 

It  was  quite  a  revelation  in  after  life  to  find  that 
the  proud  aristocrat,  the  seeming  embodiment  of 
racial  and  sectarian  ascendancy,  was  the  same  Sir 
Denham  who  was  O'Connell's  chief  supporter  during 
his  many  conflicts  in  the  House  of  Commons  ;  and 
that  later  on  he  served  under  the  banner  of  Gladstone. 

Just  before  the  Fenian  rising  in  '67,  Serjeant 
Sullivan  was  made  Solicitor-General  for  Ireland, 
and  he  had  to  find  a  seat.  And  where  but  in  his 
native  Mallow  ?  He  came,  saw,  and  conquered. 
He  was  made  Attorney-General,  and  had  to  be  re- 
elected.  He  came,  saw,  and  conquered  again.  But 
the  elections  were  hotly  contested  ;  and  party  feeling 
ran  very  high.  He  was  a  good  popular  speaker ; 
and  he  had  some  clever  tricks  in  catching  the  popular 
imagination.  The  ballad-singers  sang  : 

"  Hurrah  for  Sullivan  !     He's  the  man 
That  will  chase  the  fox  through  Duhallow. 
He's  now  come  forth  to  lead  the  Van. 
He's  one  of  the  Rakes  of  Mallow." 


i82  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

Small  boys  wrote  orders  (unlimited)  for  porter  oft 
copy-book  leaves,  which  orders  were  honoured  by 
every  publican.  The  successful  lawyer  leaped  from 
the  backs  of  a  poor,  servile  people,  from  the  bar  to 
the  bench,  from  the  bench  to  the  Woolsack.  And 
then — passed  into  oblivion.  For  it  is  a  remarkable 
fact,  and  one  that  I  should  like  to  impress  on  the  minds 
of  our  youthful  generations,  that  the  Muse  of  Irish 
History  has  a  curious  knack  of  blotting  out  with  her 
thumb  every  name,  no  matter  how  illustrious  for  a 
moment,  that  has  not  served  the  cause  of  the  mother- 
land, while  she  embalms  for  ever  in  her  pages  the 
very  humblest  who  have  given  their  lives  to  the 
sacred  cause.  I  suppose  not  one  man  in  a  million 
to-day  could  tell  the  name  of  the  judge  who  sen- 
tenced the  Manchester  martyrs  to  death  ;  and  every 
schoolboy  knows  the  names  of  Allen,  Larkin  and 
O'Brien.  Who  can  tell  the  names  of  all  the  distin- 
guished Judges,  Attorney- Generals,  Crown  Advocates, 
Serjeants-at-Law,  who  prosecuted  or  sentenced  the 
patriots  of  '98,  or  '48,  or  '67  ?  And  who  can  forget 
Emmet,  Wolfe  Tone,  the  Shears,  Mitchel,  Martin, 
Kickham  ?  And  so,  too,  the  little  town  there  by  the 
Blackwater  has  given  men  to  the  Woolsack  and  the 
Bench  ;  to  the  Church  ;  to  medicine  ;  to  art ;  and 
to  history.  Yet,  no  one  asks  where  these  men  are 
buried  ;  or  cares  to  see  the  places  where  they  were 
born.  But  ever}7  schoolboy  can  point  out  where 
Thomas  Davis  first  saw  the  light ;  and  the  high  house 
in  Ballydahin  where  William  O'Brien  spent  his  early 
days.  And  I  often  wondered  whether  that  distin- 
guished lawyer  from  Mallow,  who  wore  the  Lord 


AND  OTHER;  ESSAYS  183 

Chancellor's  robes,  was  able  to  shut  out  altogether 
that  terrible  name  "  Scorpion  Sullivan,"  that  made 
a  hissing  in  all  men's  ears  after  the  State  Trials  of 
'67  in  Cork  ?  For  I  remember  well  that  even  while 
the  mob  were  shouting  "  Hosannas ! "  after  his 
carriage  on  the  eve  of  his  election  in  Mallow,  I  heard 
some  bitter  things  said  by  white-faced  young  men 
about  "  castle-hacks  "  and  "  purchased  slaves  "  ; 
and  I  knew  that  these  young  fellows  turned  away 
in  disgust  from  the  porter-sodden  and  degraded 
canaille  of  the  streets  to  grease  their  rifles  up  there 
in  Carmichael's  Lane,  or  speculate,  as  they  watched 
the  dragoons  passing  by,  how  easily  the  axe  of  the 
croppy-pike  could  cut  the  bridles,  and  how  easily 
the  steel  hook  could  bring  the  trooper  to  the  earth  ; 
and  how  easily  the  pike  with  its  rudle-point  could 
do  the  rest.  They  were  dreamers  of  dreams,  of 
course  ;  but  they  were  superior  to  the  poor  slaves, 
whose  hands  had  closed  down  on  ill-gotten  gold,  or 
the  poor  wretches  who  debauched  themselves  with 
cheap  drink,  and  thought  they  were  serving  their 
country  ! 

The  relations  between  Protestants  and  Catholics 
were  all  this  time  exceeedingly  happy  and  cordial. 
The  only  occasion  on  which  some  little  friction  took 
place  was  when  the  Protestant  Rector  or  church- 
wardens first  attempted  to  close  the  burial-ground 
around  the  Protestant  Church  and  in  the  interior  of 
the  ruins  of  the  old  Catholic  Church  dedicated  to 
Saint  Anne.  The  attempt  made  on  this  occasion  was 
frustrated  in  a  singular  manner,  although  in  after 
years,  on  sanitary  grounds,  it  succeeded. 


184  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

During  the  summer  evenings,  a  little  man,  clad 
like  a  sailor  in  blue  blouse  and  white  nankeen  or  linen 
trousers,  used  put  in  an  appearance  just  at  the  corner 
of  Fair  Street  and  right  opposite  the  entrance  gate  to 
the  Protestant  church.  His  face  was  deeply  marked, 
and  he  looked  insignificant  enough  ;  but  his  feats  of 
strength,  for  it  was  these  he  came  to  exhibit,  hoping 
to  earn  a  fevr  pence  thereby,  were  very  remarkable, 
and  showed  uncommon  muscular  and  nervous  power. 
One  of  the  feats  was  the  lifting  of  a  half-hundred 
weight  to  the  level  of  his  head,  and  holding  it  aloft 
in  that  position  whilst  he  walked  rapidly  along  the 
streets  to  the  great  bridge  that  spanned  the  Black- 
water,  and  back  again  to  the  point  from  which  he 
started,  altogether  a  distance  of  three-quarters  of  a 
mile. 

This  evening,  just  before  giving  the  usual  exhibition 
of  strength,  an  immense  funeral  was  seen  slowly 
coming  up  the  Main  Street.  It  halted  at  the  church 
gate,  which  was  locked  and  bolted.  Clearly  this  was 
expected.  The  sexton,  acting  under  orders,  refused 
to  allow  the  funeral  cortege  to  pass.  There  was  deep 
anger  and  indignation  written  on  the  faces  of  the 
people  ;  and  after  some  moments  of  indecision,  it 
was  clear  they  were  about  to  take  the  law  into  their 
own  hands.  Amongst  them  were  the  Mallow  butchers 
— the  Gracchi  of  their  age — the  fiercest,  strongest, 
loyalest  men  that  ever  took  up  a  cause.  Just  whilst 
they  were  hesitating,  the  little  sailor  athlete  pushed 
his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  struck  the  gate  one 
violent  blow  straight  from  the  shoulder.  Whether 
it  was  that  the  lock  was  worn  and  rusty,  or  the  impact 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  185 

very  great,  the  great  iron  gate  yielded  and  swung 
back  ;  and  the  tumultuous  crowd,  with  a  suppressed 
cheer,  broke  into  the  avenue.  No  legal  action  was 
taken,  but  probably  the  little  sailor  got  sixpences 
for  pennies  that  night. 

And  may  I  not  embalm,  and  preserve  from  utter 
oblivion,  in  these  hot  and  hasty  times,  the  names  of 
the  humbler,  yet  picturesque  celebrities,  who  haunted 
the  streets  of  Mallow  during  these  days,  and  who 
came  prominently  to  the  front  during  election  times, 
and  were  well  known  at  fair,  market,  and  cross — Bill 
Shehane,  the  giant,  who  always  inherited  the  boots 
and  cast-off  integuments  of  another  giant,  old  Homan 
Haines  ;  Bill  Shehane,  who  knocked  down  with  one 
blow  a  furious  and  dangerous  bull  in  the  Big  meadow, 
and  then  cried  chivalrously  :  "  Get  up  you,  you  son 
of  a  gun,  I  never  struck  a  man  down  "  ;  Stephen  the 
Fool,  who  once  swallowed  a  live  mouse  for  the  pre- 
mium of  sixpence  and  the  delectation  of  the  Club 
gentleman  ;  Jack  the  Manager  ;  Davy  the  Lady ; 
Biddy  Black ;  Peg  Mack ;  Ellen  Gorman,  of  the 
Cakes  ;  and  last,  not  least,  Kitty  Moss,  the  terror  of 
our  childhood. 

And  in  higher  circles  of  society,  there  were  that 
giant  priest,  the  typical  soggart  of  the  past,  Justin 
McCarthy,  mighty  in  stature,  and  great  of  heart,  the 
hero  of  two  tithe  wars,  the  foe  of  felonious  landlordism, 
who  revenged  an  eviction  in  his  parish  by  putting  a 
price  of  one  shilling  per  head  on  every  fox's  head 
that  was  brought  to  his  hall-door.  And  the  gentle 
Abbe"  Moriarty,  with  the  seraphic  face  and  the  long 
white  hair,  who,  we  firmly  believed,  saw  the  heavens 


i86  THE  LITERARY  LIFE  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

opened,  when,  on  Sunday  mornings,  he  preached, 
and  the  beautiful  vestments  which  he  had  brought 
from  Dieppe  shone  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  magnifi- 
cent chalice  glittered  on  the  altar.  And  Father  Danger 
(Murphy),  theologian  and  catechist  without  rival  or 
equal,  whom  we  looked  at  with  such  awe  and  venera- 
tion ;  and  the  saintly  Denia  O'Connell,  just  passed 
to  his  reward  ;  and  Father  P.  Horgan,  young,  gifted, 
accomplished,  who  trained  our  choir  on  the  one  hand, 
and  was  inexorable  to  Sunday-school  truants  on  the 
other.  He  is  still,  happily,  with  us  ;  but  the  others — 
alas  !  all  gone,  swallowed  up  in  the  night  of  oblivion 
or  rather  shall  we  say,  basking  in  the  eternal  sunshine 
of  an  eternal  day  ? 


LENTEN  TIME  IN  DONERAILE 

x 

The  Stations  are  over  ;  and  we  are  in  Holy  Week. 
Like  all  other  human  things,  if  laborious,  the  memory 
of  them  is  pleasant.  It  is  no  joke  to  get  up  at  an 
unearthly  hour  in  the  morning,  and  to  speed,  in  very 
variable  weather,  seven  or  eight  miles  to  the  house 
where  the  Station  is  to  be  held.  Sometimes,  after 
snow,  the  ground  is  so  slippery  we  have  to  pick  our 
steps.  Sometimes  Boreas  thunders  from  the  north, 
out  between  the  mountain  chasms,  and  across  the 
bleak  March  landscape.  Sometimes  the  south  wind 
comes  up,  with  its  soft,  sweet,  heavy  burden  of  rain. 
But  at  all  times  one  is  glad  to  get  in  sight  of  the 
farmers'  cottage,  known  and  recognised  afar  off  by 
its  fresh  coat  of  white- wash,  and  the  little  group  of 
men  waiting  in  the  haggart  before  the  door  There 
is  a  cheery  welcome  from  the  master — the  husband 
or  the  eldest  son  ;  a  careful  picking  of  our  footsteps 
across  the  muddy  yard,  carpeted  with  fresh  straw ; 
a  bark  of  warning  from  the  vigilant  collie  ;  a  still  more 
warm  welcome  from  the  vanithee,  and  then  we  settle 
down  to  work.  I  generally  leave  the  "  parlour  "  to 
my  curate.  I  prefer  the  seat  by  the  open  hearth, 
where  piles  of  timber  and  coal,  and  occasionally  a 
heap  of  mountain  turf,  light  and  heat  the  whole 


187 


i88  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

kitchen.  And  here  is  the  "  sugan  "  chair,  made  of 
twisted  hay  ;  but  the  vanithee  rushes  out  with  a  grand, 
new,  horse-haired,  well-springed  one,  and  snatches 
the  humble  seat  swiftly  away.  Right  opposite  me, 
a  withered,  venerable  woman  stoops  to  catch  a  little 
heat  for  her  poor  congealed  veins.  Her  beads  hang 
dovm  as  they  roll  through  her  fingers.  Here,  quite 
close,  are  the  three  junior  scions  of  the  house,  their 
faces  shining  from  soap  and  the  fire,  their  pinafores 
spotless,  and  with  great  wonder  in  their  eyes  at  the 
awful  apparition  of  the  priest.  Silently  and  reverently, 
one  by  one,  the  penitents  come  and  kneel  on  the  hard 
paving  stones,  bend  their  heads  till  their  hair  touches 
your  face,  and  make  their  simple  confession.  Then 
the  little  lecture,  the  Holy  Mass,  heard  so  reverently 
and  humbly.  All  is  still  as  death,  save  the  cackling 
of  a  hen  in  the  yard,  or  the  swift  carol  of  a  blackbird 
out  on  the  ash  tree  beyond.  The  station  list  is  called  ; 
the  "  pleasant  word  "  is  said  ;  and  then  the  breakfast. 
It  is  a  pretty  poor  business  in  Lent,  though  since  we 
got  the  dispensation  for  butter,  it  is  not  quite  so  bad. 
And  the  vanithee,  with  great  pity  for  the  young 
priests,  sidles  over  and  whispers  : — 

"  Wisha,  yer  reverence,  what  about  a  couple  of 
eggs  ?  It  is  a  long  drive,  and  a  cowld  morning." 

We  shake  our  heads  ;  and  the  talk  goes  round, 
with  one  or  two  of  the  neighbours  who  have  come 
in  to  help  us  ;  and  it  is  all  about  the  "  Lague,"  or 
the  Landlord,  or  the  new  taxes,  or  the  Land  Courts. 
And  it  is  sad  and  almost  desperate  to  see  these  poor 
people  toiling  from  dawn  to  dark  to  make  the  "  rint  "  ; 
but  "  Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast," 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  189 

and  there  is  a  perennial  fountain  of  hope  in  the  hearts 
of  these  people.1  "  Well,  sure  God  is  good  !  "  There 
is  the  ultimate  syllable  on  the  Irish  tongue — faith, 
deep,  profound,  unshakable  in  the  eternal  clemency 
and  protection  of  God. 

And  so,  cheerful  enough  after  our  cup  of  tea,  we 
bid  "  Good-bye  !  "  to  our  good  hosts,  until 

"  Give  Mary  your  blessin',  your  reverence  ;  she's 
goin'  to  America  next  week." 

My  heart  sinks  down  into  my  boots.  America  ! 
America  1  draining  the  life-blood  of  Ireland.  All 
that  is  fair,  and  beautiful,  and  healthy,  going ;  and 
all  that  is  old,  and  decrepit,  and  imbecile,  left  behind. 
I  cannot  help  saying  angrily : — 

"  Why  can't  she  stop  at  home  ?  " 

"  Wisha,  yer  reverence,  what's  there  for  her  ? 
We  have  enough  to  do  ;  and  sure  the  sisters  in  Boston 
have  paid  her  passage,  and  will  meet  her  whin  landin'." 

There  is  no  use  replying.  With  a  surly  look  and 
bad  grace  I  place  my  hand  on  the  thick  auburn  hair 
of  the  poor  child ;  and  my  curate  wonders  all  the 
way  home  why  I  am  so  silent  and  distracted.  I 
cannot  help  it.  This  whole  modern  and  universal 

1  Their  trust  in  Providence  has  been  vindicated.  The  above 
lines  were  written  while  the  old  evil  system  of  dual  ownership 
was  still  in  operation.  Under  the  beneficent  influence  of  the 
Land  Purchase  Act  of  1903,  the  landlord  system  has  now  quite 
disappeared  from  the  parish,  and  the  soil  has  become  the  people's 
own  property.  The  results  are  abundantly  evident  already  in 
their  greater  cheerfulness  and  comfort,  the  neatness  of  their 
homes  and  their  increased  enterprise  in  developing  the  resources 
of  the  soil.  "  The  Lague  "  is  still  a  power  in  the  parish,  but  it 
is  a  League  for  completing  the  pacification  of  the  country  by 
combining  Irishmen  of  all  creeds  in  the  cause  of  their  common 
native  land. 


190  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

exodus  from  their  native  land  is  maddening.  I  know 
it  is  the  genius  of  the  race.  We  were  always  exiles 
and  wanderers.  We  got  the  evil  impetus  from  our 
Scythian  forefathers,  who  struck  and  pitched  their 
tents  of  skins  from  the  Balkans  to  the  Urals,  and  from 
the  Danube  to  the  Ganges.  It  was  the  same  nomadic 
spirit  that  drove  Dathi  and  his  soldiers  across  Europe 
in  their  terrible  crusade  of  fire,  until  their  mighty  king 
was  smitten,  from  Heaven,  under  the  snows  of  the 
Alps.  It  was  the  same  spirit  that  bade  Brendan  seek 
the  Western  World  ;  and  his  companions  the  forests 
of  France  and  Germany.  Down  there  on  the  Kerry 
coast,  near  Smerwick,  where  Grey  de  Wilton  mas- 
sacred the  four  hundred  Spaniards  who  laid  down 
their  arms,  depending  on  his  word  of  honour,  you 
still  may  see  the  beehive  cells  where  the  ancient 
Irish  monks  rested  on  their  couches  of  rushes — cells 
so  constructed  for  this  race  of  mighty  ascetics  that 
the  monk  could  neither  stand  nor  lie.  And  there  is 
the  same  eternal  sea,  where  they  found  their  choir- 
stalls,  for  there  up  to  their  armpits  in  the  freezing 
waters  they  stood  at  midnight,  and  sent  up  their 
penitential  chaunts  to  Heaven,  with  no  organ  accom- 
paniment but  that  of  howling  winds  and  thundering 
Waves.  But  were  these  ascetics  of  the  Irish  Thebaid 
content  with  this  ?  No  !  After  thirty  or  forty  years 
of  this  violence  to  Heaven,  the  old  Celtic  spirit  seized 
them,  and  "  peregrinari  pro  Christo  !  'n  on  their  lips, 
up  they  arose,  and  on  these  frail  coracles,  such  as 
those  you  may  still  see  in  Kerry  and  Arran — poor, 
fragile,  Nautilus-boats,  canvas  stretched  on  a  few 

1  To  go  abroad  for  Christ's  sake. 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  191 

planks,  they  went  forth  to  France  and  Germany  ; 
and  the  weaker  races  shuddered  before  their  Libyan 
austerities,  and  clamoured  for  the  milder  rules  of 
Benedict,  in  place  of  the  awful  penalism  of  these 
Irish  Culdees.  And  that  is  the  reason,  you  know, 
why  the  Benedictines  have  never  thriven  in  Ireland. 

Well!  "peregrinari!  peregrinari !  "  there  is  still 
the  destiny  of  the  race.  Alas  !  that  we  should  say 
it :  It  is  no  longer  "  peregrinari  pro  Christo  I  "  but 
"  peregrinari  pro  Mammona  !  "  Ah  !  yes  !  the  dear 
old  Spartan  simplicity  of  Irish  peasant  life  is  yielding 
to  the  seductions  of  the  Zeitgeist :  we  want  the  city, 
and  the  electric  light,  and  the  saloon,  and  the  ball- 
room. There's  the  secret  of  Irish  emigration  f 

Well,  we've  finished  the  rounds  of  Stations.  We 
have  trodden  on  historic,  or  semi-historic  ground. 
We  have  passed  by  the  two  Danish  moats  under  the 
old  frontier  keep  of  Shinagh,  near  Waterdyke ;  have 
skirted  Ballinamona,  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Nagles, 
one  of  whom,  Elizabeth  Nagle,  married  Spenser, 
the  poet  (see  Lowell  on  the  English  poets).  In  this 
house,  too,  lived  George  Bond  Lowe,  who  was  fired 
at  eighty  years  ago,  whence  originated  the  famous 
"  Doneraile  Conspiracy  Trial,"  in  the  evolutions  of 
which  O'Connell  won  his  brightest  laurels.  Who 
has  not  heard  of  his  journey  by  coach  from  Cahir- 
civeen,  his  relays  by  the  way,  his  appearance  in  Cork 
Courthouse,  to  the  utter  dismay  of  the  Solicitor- 
General,  his  breakfast  on  the  dry  loaf  of  bread, 
interrupted  between  every  bite  by  his  exclamation  : 
"  That's  not  law,  sir  !  "  the  saving  of  the  poor  victims 
from  the  gallows,  by  his  marvellous  eloquence  ;  their 


192 


THE  LITERARY  LIFE 


transportation — ah,  yes  !  it  all  comes  back,  for  here 
are  their  grand-children  in  my  parish  to-day.  And 
down  there  across  the  Awbeg,  whose  silver  is  now 
gleaming  in  the  morning  sunlight,  is  the  spot  where 
Father  O'Neill  was  horsewhipped  by  Captain  St. 
Leger ;  and  when  the  old  priest  shrank  from  pro- 
secution, Curran  forced  him  into  it,  took  up  the  cause 
of  the  old  man  without  fee  or  reward,  except  that  it 
laid  the  first  stone  of  an  immortal  reputation.  Here, 
too,  is  Carker  (career,  a  prison),  where  my  prede- 
cessor, Father  Tighe  Daly,  lived  in  1688,  one  of  the 
priests  who  had  to  be  duly  registered,  and  his  good 
conduct  guaranteed  by  two  solvent  securities.  Here 
is  the  copy  of  his  registration,  culled  from  the  Rolls 
Office,  Dublin  Castle  : 


Of  what  parishes 

No. 

Name 

Age 

Where 

By  Whom 

Place  of 

is  he  the  pretended 

Ordained 

Residence 

Parish  Priest 

The 

Caherduggan, 

Tighe 

67 

Rheims 

Archbishop 

Carker 

Doneraile, 

Daly 

of  Rheims 

Templersan. 

Securities — Arthur  O'Keeffe,  Bally mohill, 

and  £50  each. 

Another 

Back  here  in  the  defiles  of  the  black  mountains  is 
a  favourite  spot  of  mine,  Tooreen.  You  can  see  it 
gleaming — a  little  green  patch  against  the  sombre 
setting  of  the  purple  hills  ; — and  it  stretches  deep 
down  into  the  brown  valleys,  where  the  stream,  turbid 
with  flood-wrack,  wine-coloured  from  the  peat,  or 
crystal  in  the  mild  summer  time,  forever  break  the 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  193 

silence  and  monotony  of  these  wilds.  And  here  dwell 
a  simple,  hardy  race,  leading  a  kind  of  monastic  life 
in  their  solitudes,  and  rarely  venturing  beyond  the 
seclusion  of  their  valleys,  except  to  Mass  on  Sundays 
or  holidays.  I  had  heard  of  them  long  before  I  ever 
thought  I  should  be  their  pastor.  From  far  before 
the  famine  years,  when  the  population  was  ten  times 
what  it  is  to-day,  their  reputation  has  come  down 
unbroken,  as  being  the  very  first,  winter  and  summer 
alike,  to  enter  the  Church  on  Sunday  morning.  They 
are  seven  miles  away — no  roads  from  the  inner  fast- 
nesses of  the  mountains — yet  here  they  are  at  half- 
past  seven  on  Sunday  morning,  eager  for  the  Mass 
that  is  to  cast  its  halo  of  blessing  over  their  labours 
of  the  coming  week.  I  tell  them  they  ought  to  be 
holy — they  are  so  near  to  God.  Yet  here,  too,  the 
fever  of  emigration  has  penetrated  ;  and  in  New  York 
and  Indiana,  up  and  down  the  cities  of  the  States, 
are  the  children  of  the  mist  and  the  cloud,  thinking, 
perhaps,  sometimes  of  the  purple  heather  and  the 
bracken,  and  wondering  will  they  ever  see  it  again. 

"  From  this  spot,  yer  reverence,"  says  old  Dan 
Magrath,  the  woodranger,  "  you  can  see  the  five 
counties." 

So  you  can.  The  sea  to  the  south,  the  Shannon  to 
the  West ;  and  in  the  east  Knockmeldown,  beneath 
whose  conical  summits  nestles  the  Mecca  of  the 
Irish — the  Monastery  of  Melleray.  And  far  in  front 
stretches  a  vast  landscape,  broken  by  ridges  that  run 
parallel  to  one  another,  but  transverse,  here  from 
the  mountains  to  the  sea.  It  is  dotted  all  over  with 
white  farm  houses,  from  which  the  blue  smoke,  this 

M 


194  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

calm  March  morning,  curls  upwards  to  the  sky. 
The  smell  of  Spring  is  in  the  air,  blended  with  the 
pungent  aroma  of  peat  and  wood  fires,  carried  to  us 
across  the  wide  lowlands  ;  the  cattle  are  browsing 
lazily  in  the  far  meadows  ;  now  and  again  you  can 
hear  the  bark  of  a  watch  dog  far  away,  or  the  song  of 
some  colleen  or  bouchal,  as  they  pass  down  to  the 
creamery  ;  and  all  Heaven  over  your  head  is  resonant 
with  the  raptures  of  the  larks,  who  fling  down  the 
dews  from  their  exultant  wings  and  the  pearls  of 
music  from  their  throats  that  gasp  with  exuberant 
melody.  And  this  is  Ireland  ?  Yes  !  And  there, 
down  there  in  the  lowland,  and  here  in  the  mountain 
defiles,  are  Celts  ?  Yes,  every  one  !  But  was  it  not 
here,  even  in  this  very  valley  of  Tooreen,  that  Spenser 
saw  the  ghosts  coming  out  of  their  caverns  ;  and  was 
it  not  of  this  very  country  he  wrote,  that  its  population 
was  exterminated  ?  Hear  his  words,  written  just 
there  below,  where  the  black  ruin  of  Kilcolman  Castle 
makes  a  blot  upon  the  landscape  : — 

"  Out  of  every  corner  of  the  woods  and  glens  they 
came  creeping  forth  upon  their  hands,  for  their  legs 
could  not  bear  them ;  they  looked  anatomies  of 
death  ;  they  spake  like  ghosts  crying  out  of  the 
graves  ;  they  did  eat  of  the  carrions,  happy  when 
they  could  find  them,  yea,  and  one  another  soon 
after,  insomuch  as  the  very  carcases  they  spared  not 
to  scrape  out  of  their  graves  ;  and,  if  they  found  a 
plot  of  water  cresses  or  shamrocks,  there  they  flocked 
as  to  a  feast  for  the  time  ;  yet  not  able  long  to  continue 
wherewithal ;  that  in  short  space  there  were  none 
almost  left,  and  a  most  populous  and  plentiful 
country  was  suddenly  left  void  of  man  or  beast." 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  195 

Yet  a  few  years  ;  and  through  these  very  files 
swept  down  the  stalwart  Rapparees,  who  surrounded 
Kilcolman  Castle,  and  put  the  brand  to  this  keep  of 
the  robber  and  the  stranger  ;  and  then  with  character- 
istic Irish  chivalry  dashed  through  the  burning  rooms 
to  rescue  a  babe,  whom,  too  late,  they  had  heard  was 
left  behind  by  the  Saxon  servants.  And  here,  after 
three  hundred  years  confiscation  and  burning,  exile 
and  death,  Connacht  plantations  and  West  Indian 
expatriation,  here  still  are  the  Celts  apparently  as 
indomitable  as  ever.  Surely,  if  Rome  is  the  "  Eternal 
City,"  the  Irish  are  the  "  undying  race." 

Let  us  go  down  from  the  hill-top  in  our  course  of 
Stations,  and  visit  the  low-lands.  We  pass  at  once 
under  the  shadow  of  another  mighty  frontier  fortress, 
also  belonging  to  Spenser,  for  he  held  three  thousand 
acres  of  land  here,  confiscated  from  the  Earl  of 
Desmond.  It  is  a  splendid  old  keep,  still  well  pre- 
served— a  square,  embattled  tower,  like  that  which 
suggested  to  Dante  the  simile  of  masculine  fortitude 
— Sta  come  tone  ferma.  You  can  see  it  for  miles 
around.  Sometimes,  when  the  sun  shines,  it  is 
almost  invisible,  for  the  white  face  of  it  does  not 
show  against  the  sunlit  mountains.  But,  generally, 
it  stands  out  clear,  distinct,  well  defined,  a  solid 
square  of  mediaeval  masonry  against  the  everlasting 
hills.  It  is  Castlepooke — the  keep  of  the  Phooca  or 
Witch  ;  for  you  must  know  that  once  on  a  time,  a 
famous  witch,  and  a  malignant  one,  took  up  her 
quarters  here,  and  wrought  dire  distress  amongst  the 
people  around.  She  burned  the  corn  in  the  fields, 
until  the  wheat  ears  were  filled  with  soot  instead  of 


196  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

grain,  sterilised  the  milk  in  dairies  until  no  amount 
of  churning  could  produce  cream,  brought  dread 
diseases  on  the  cattle,  etc.,  and  alas  !  there  was  no 
benevolent  fairy  to  counteract  the  evil  doings,  or 
bring  blessing  for  curse  to  the  afflicted  people.  But 
there  was  a  hope — a  promise — a  tradition,  that  if 
the  habit  of  a  Grey  Friar  could  be  flung  over  her  in 
her  sleep  she  would  rise  up  and  vanish  in  a  flame 
of  fire.  And,  one  day,  the  emancipation  came.  A 
poor  mendicant  called  at  a  farmer's  house  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  begged  for  alms  and  a  night's 
lodging.  It  was  freely  given  in  this  land  of  hospitality. 
The  stranger  slept,  and  lo  !  curiosity  led  the  vanithee 
to  open  and  inspect  the  bundle  the  poor  man  brought. 
It  was  all  he  had,  but  the  staff  for  his  hand.  And 
she  drew  out  the  long  grey  habit  of  a  friar.  It  was 
rash,  perhaps  sacrilegious  ;  but  the  time  had  come. 
God  had  sent  His  messenger.  But  who  would  dare 
face  the  tigress  in  her  den  ?  Not  one  would  volunteer  ! 
At  last,  a  little  child  was  requisitioned.  She  knew 
no  fear,  probably  because  she  knew  no  sin.  Care- 
lessly she  ascended  the  high  mound  of  the  Castle, 
carelessly  entered,  carelessly  threw  the  garment  over 
the  sleeping  woman,  who  instantly  rose  in  the  air, 
angry  and  threatening,  and  passed  away  for  ever- 
more in  a  flash  of  fire  towards  the  West.  So  goes 
the  legend  ;  and  of  course  it  is  true  ;  but  I  do  not 
vouch  for  it. 

Our  next  Station  takes  us  down  into  the  plain  to 
Kilmacneesh — church  and  graveyard  of  St.  McNeese, 
a  disciple  of  St.  Patrick's.  Thence  to  Inchnagree 
(the  island  of  the  cattle  pens),  where  quite  lately  a 


AND   OTHER  ESSAYS  197 

pathetic  little  incident  took  place.  One  day  the  very 
intelligent  farmer  who  holds  the  land  received  a 
letter  from  a  lady  in  England,  asking  was  there  any 
tradition  of  her  family  in  that  neighbourhood.  She 
had  a  dim  recollection  that  she  was  born  somewhere 
there  under  the  mountains  of  Mole.  He  at  once  wrote 
to  say  that  he  could  point  out  the  exact  place  where  her 
father's  house  stood.  She  came  over  immediately 
and  drove  from  the  railway  station  to  this  remote  place. 
The  good  farmer  accompanied  the  trembling  lady 
along  the  road  to  where  the  house  stood  near  a 
plantation  of  fir  trees.  "  There,"  he  said,  pointing 
to  the  spot  from  which  time  had  now  swept  away 
even  the  ruins,  "  there  is  where  your  house  stood, 
and  there  you  were  born."  The  lady  sat  down  on 
the  broken  edge  of  the  fence,  and  wept.  So  do  human 
hearts  turn  to  their  homes  and  cradles.  Across 
Bawntigeen  (the  green  field  of  the  little  house)  we 
pass  ;  and  our  next  Station  is  Kilcolman,  Ardeen, 
and  Ballyvonare.  Here  was  a  church,  built  to  St. 
Colman,  one  of  St.  Patrick's  disciples  ;  and  here  in 
a  little  field  is  the  Church  of  Rossdoyle  or  Rossdale,1 
mentioned  in  the  same  page  as  Doneraile  in  the 
assessment  made  by  Pope  Nicolas  in  1291  for  the 
Crusades  in  the  Holy  Land.  But  St.  Colman's 
Church  and  Priory  are  gone  ;  yet  here,  dating  from 
1387,  is  the  Castle  of  Kilcolman,  famous  for  ever 
as  the  place  where  the  "  Faerie  Queen  "  was  written. 
It  is  now  a  solid  stump  of  masonry,  but  must  have 
extended  far  and  wide  across  the  meadow  and  above 

1  This  little  church  is  the  oldest  Christian  Church  in  Ireland, 
if  we  except  one  near  Bray. 


198  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

the  bog,  there  beneath,  once  an  ornamental  lake. 
How  the  imagination  travels  back  across  centuries 
to  the  old  Desmond  lords  who  built  it ;  to  the 
Elizabethan  usurper,  who  never  preached  but  one 
solution  of  the  eternal  Irish  question,  and  that  the 
Cromwellian  one  of  wholesale  massacre  ! 

Spenser,  who  would  exterminate  the  native  Irish 
like  vermin,  died  a  beggar  in  London,  in  a  lane 
near  the  great  new  Cathedral  of  Westminster ; 
and  Kilcolman  Castle  is  now  held  bv  the  Celto- 

w 

Catholic  Barrys  ;  and  there,  right  under  the  old  keep, 
is  the  white-washed  cottage  of  the  Secretary  of  the 
Land  League — an  unmistakable  Celt  of  Celts — 
William  O'Toole. 

And  how  the  centuries  glide  into  each  other  ;  for 
here  a  few  years  ago  the  most  popular  representa- 
tive the  great  Republic  of  the  West  ever  sent  to 
Ireland,  J.  J.  Piatt,  wrote  sonnets  on  the  blackened 
ruin,  and  on  the  more  modern  structure  beneath. 

Across  the  Awbeg,  our  course  has  taken  us  through 
Cahirmee,  where,  for  three  hundred  years,  the  greatest 
horse  fair  in  the  world  is  held,  on  the  nth  and  i2th 
July  ;  by  Caherduggan,  whose  village  (depopulated 
by  plague),  church  and  castle,  are  swept  away  ;  by 
Cornahinch  (hill  of  the  island),  Ardanaffron,  which 
is  either  hill  of  the  Mass,  or  Saffron  Hill,  its  modern 
appellation,  for  here  grew  acres  of  yellow  crocuses, 
which  yielded  the  saffron  with  which  the  Irish  in- 
variably dyed  their  outer  garment ;  by  Bally-na-Dree, 
the  town  of  the  Druids,  and  Croagh-na-cree,  where 
there  still  may  be  seen  the  sulphur  and  lithia  well 
that  wrought  marvellous  cures  in  pre-Patrician  times  ; 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  199 

and  back  to  By-bloxe  towne  (the  ancient  name,  for 
Doneraile  is  quite  modern,  dating  only  from  1291), 
to  find  the  black  pall  of  mourning  hung  over  church 
and  people,  for  this  is  Holy  Week,  and  to-night  the 
sweet  Rosary,  Sermon,  and  Benediction,  always  so 
bright  and  glorious  and  triumphant,  give  way  to  the 
solemn  office  of  Tenebrae  and  its  mournful  lamen- 
tations. 

Holy  Thursday  : — 

Yes,  indeed,  my  incredulous  reader,  we  had  the 
office  of  Tenebrse  last  night  here,  even  here,  in  this 
remote  village  ;  and  we  sang  the  solemn  dirges  of 
Jeremias,  and  my  good  little  choir  did  harmonise 
the  "  Benedictus  "  and  the  "  Miserere."  It  was  not 
quite  so  impressive,  perhaps,  as  what  you  have  heard, 
so  many  times,  in  the  Sistine  Chapel ;  but  it  was 
well  sustained,  and  correct,  and  sure  ;  if  our  poor 
people  only  followed  it  in  their  heads  and  in  their 
hearts,  well,  it  must  have  left  sweet  and  soothing, 
and  penetential  feelings  there. 

» 
Good  Friday  : — 

It  falls  cold,  and  chill,  and  mournful  upon  us  all  : 
yesterday  was  so  bright  and  joyous  we  forgot  we 
were  in  Lent.  And  the  altar  was  so  beautiful,  with 
its  red  candles  (are  not  candle  flames  always  red  in 
daylight  ?)  and  huge  masses  of  flowers — spring 
flowers,  narcissi,  and  tulips,  and  hyacinths,  and  the 
lily  of  the  valley — all  throwing  out  the  incense  of 
their  humble  hearts  before  the  feet  of  the  hidden 
Creator.  And,  all  day  long,  our  Children  of  Mary, 


200  THE  LITERARY  LIFE 

in  their  blue  cloaks,  divided  the  hours  among  them, 
so  that  there  never  was  a  fear  that  our  dear  Lord 
should  be  left  even  for  a  moment  alone.  But  there 
was  no  danger  of  that ;  for  all  day  long,  the  people 
thronged  and  dwelt  in  the  little  church,  until  very 
late  at  night,  when,  with  a  kind  of  pang,  as  of  a 
parting  with  a  beloved  one,  the  candles  were  extin- 
guished, and  the  doors  closed,  and  God  left  alone 
with  His  angels  !  But  this  morning,  there  was  a  flash 
of  lights  for  a  moment  again,  which  was  instantly 
darkened  after  the  procession  of  the  Blessed  Sacra- 
ment ;  and  the  deep  gloom  of  black  draper}',  hushed 
bells,  mourning  vestments,  and  the  solemn  figure  on 
the  cross,  fell  on  our  hearts  and  senses. 

Holy  Saturday  : — 

We  had  Tenebrae  again  last  evening ;  and,  of 
course,  a  Passion  Sermon.  In  one  sense,  the  Passion 
Sermon  is  the  greatest  oratorical  event  of  the  year 
in  Ireland.  Men  go  to  hear  the  Passion  Sermon  who 
won't  go  to  Mass.  Protestants  attend.  The  priest  is 
chosen  for  the  office  as  far  back  as  Ash  Wednesday;  and 
if  he  is  young,  and  has  not  yet  learned  that  the  breath 
of  popular  applause,  called  fame,  is  a  very  futile  and 
fugitive  thing,  he  is  naturally  nervous  and  appre- 
hensive. The  lines  of  the  sermon,  too,  are  strictly 
limited.  It  must  extend  to  an  hour  at  least.  Anything 
short  of  that  is  a  disappointment.  And  it  must  follow, 
detail  after  detail,  the  Gospel  narrative.  Any  de- 
parture from  that  is  viewed  with  great  displeasure 
by  the  people,  and  is  gravely  censured  hy  the  older 
priests. 


AND  OTHER  ESSAYS  201 

"  'Twas  a  good  sermon  enough  ;    but  it  was  not 
a  Passion  Sermon,"  is  the  verdict. 

If  the  young  priest  has  physical  endurance  to  carry 
him  over  two  hours,  he  is  immortalized.  Every  one 
feels  that  real  justice  has  been  done  to  that  sacred 
and  ineffable  theme.  And,  dear  me  !  how  it  touches 
their  Catholic  hearts  !  And  how  they  crowd  around 
that  pulpit.  Here,  just  behind  me,  two  or  three 
are  leaning  over  the  altar  rails  ;  beneath,  the  children 
have  poked  in  their  heads  to  get  a  better  view  of  the 
"  strange  priest."  The  women,  with  hooded  heads, 
are  rocking  themselves  to  and  fro,  under  the  magic 
of  the  eloquence  ;  now  and  again,  some  young  girl 
covertly  takes  out  her  handkerchief,  and,  wiping  her 
eyes  hastily,  tries  to  look  impassive  and  unconcerned. 
Ah,  me  !  'tis  no  use.  That  story  of  infinite  suffering, 
infinite  patience,  and  infinite  love,  will  continue  to 
touch  the  human  heart  until  the  dread  time  comes 
when  the  selfishness  of  modern  life  shall  dry  up  all 
the  springs  of  human  affection,  and  the  divinest  ex- 
amples of  self-surrender  and  abnegation  cease  to 
touch  the  films  of  eyes  that  stare  blindly  and  un- 
knowingly at  them. 

Ah,  well !  the  sermon  is  over,  the  Tenebrae 
concluded  ;  the  little  children  have  gone  home  in 
the  dark,  clinging  to  their  mothers,  and  wondering, 
wondering  in  their  own  minds  at  the  mighty  preacher. 
And  Holy  Saturday  has  dawned — the  brightest  day 
in  the  year  in  my  reckoning.  For,  after  all,  Easter 
Sunday  is  but  a  second  and  revised  edition  of  Holy 
Saturday.  Surely,  all  the  joy  and  exultation  of  the 
Resurrection  has  spent  itself,  when,  after  the  blessing 


202  THE  LITERARY   LIFE 

of  the  font  and  the  Paschal  fire  (always  reminiscent 
of  St.  Patrick  and  Tara),  and  the  mighty  candle,  and 
the  prophecies  and  litanies,  \ve  flung  off  our  plain 
albs  and  purple  vestments,  and  tore  away  the  violet 
veils  from  the  statues,  and  the  organ  pealed  out  at 
the  Gloria,  and  the  great  bell  rang,  and  the  acolytes, 
on  tiptoe  of  expectation,  pealed  out  a  salvo  of  bells 
at  the  word  !  And  then  that  glorious  Regina  Coeli, 
by  Lambilotte,  is  it  not  ?  I  don't  know,  and  I  don't 
care  ;  nor  do  I  know  or  care  whether  it  is  strictly 
classical,  or  Cecilian,  or  what  not.  I  leave  all  that  to 
the  dreadful  people  who  laugh  and  cry  by  rule.  All 
I  know  is  this — that  that  splendid  accompaniment 
seems  to  my  uncultivated  senses  to  harmonize  with 
all  the  Rubrical  requirements  of  this  great  morning. 
It  would  not  be  out  of  place  as  the  orchestral  rendering 
and  resurrection-song  of  the  great  final  day.  Then 
Magnificat,  short  Vespers  ;  and  Holy  Week  is  over  ! 
There  is  one  drawback.  The  Lenten  fast  should 
close  on  Good  Friday  night  at  twelve  o'clock.  It  is 
not  congruous  that  after  the  mighty  exultation  of  the 
Holy  Saturday  ceremonies  we  should  have  to  sit 
down  to  a  Lenten  breakfast. 

Easter  Sunday  : — 

Well,  I  repent  of  and  retract  what  I  said  above. 
Easter  Sunday  is  not  a  replica  or  second  edition  of 
anything  else  on  earth.  It  stands  alone.  This 
morning  the  children  got  up  early  to  see  the  sun 
dancing  ;  for  in  Ireland  the  sun  dances  with  joy 
on  the  Resurrection-morning.  And  all  the  neigh- 
bours, thronging  to  Mass,  are  joyful ;  and  "  A 


AND   OTHER  ESSAYS  203 

happy  Aisther  !  "  is  going  all  round.  We  had  an 
immense  Communion  ;  and  at  High  Mass  an  im- 
mense congregation. 

"  'Twas  aiqual  to  any  two  Masses  I  ever  heard 
before,"  says  a  farmer  from  a  neighbouring  parish, 
who  saw  High  Mass  for  the  first  time.  And  the 
Victimae  Paschali  was  lovely  ;  and  again,  my  heart 
leaped  at  the  Regina  Codi ;  and  I  thought  I  heard 
all  Heaven  tumultuously  echoing  that  mighty  paean 
of  triumph  to  their  great  Queen.  And  the  boys 
bolted  at  the  Alleluias  of  the  Ite  Missa  Est>  as  is  usual 
all  the  world  over.  But  they  made  up  for  it.  For 
here,  under  my  window,  all  the  week,  they  are 
shouting  Alleluia  !  whenever  they  peg  a  top  or  hit 
a  marble  ;  and  all  Nature  is  singing  Alleluia  !  for 
it  is  springtime,  and  the  green  buds  are  hanging  on 
the  trees,  just  ready  to  burst  forth  ;  and  the  incense 
that  hangs  around  the  garments  of  the  virgin  season 
is  afloat  in  the  air  ;  and  the  river,  there  under  the 
bridge  is  murmuring  Alleluia  !  and  the  red-beaked 
blackbirds  and  the  speckled  thrushes  are  shouting 
Alleluia  !  And  the  noisy  larks  are  filling  the  heavens 
with  Alleluia  !  and,  oh,  dear  me,  all  Ireland  would 
ring  with  Alleluia  !  from  sea  to  sea,  and  from  cliff 
to  cliff ;  but,  alas  !  it  is  as  yet  only  a  feeble  prelude* 
for  her  resurrection-day  has  not  dawned  ;  and  no 
one  has  yet  arisen  to  answer  the  mournful  question  : — 

"  Who  will  roll  back  for  us  the  stone  at  the  Mouth 
of  the  Sepulchre  ?  For  it  is  very  great." 


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